


Memento Mori

by doormouse



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:29:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doormouse/pseuds/doormouse
Summary: Thomas asked Alison to discover what happened to his mortal remains after his death.  Soon the other ghosts make similar requests....
Comments: 66
Kudos: 72





	1. The Request

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic attempt so please be kind!  
> I hope to write a similar concept for each of the ghosts - but clearly some will require some imagination!  
> Currently working hard on Thomas's reactions to what he learns (chapter 2) and hope to have it up by the end of the week.

‘Alison,’ Thomas began, slightly hesitantly. ‘Can I ask you to do something for me?’ 

Grateful for the excuse to ignore the pile of invoices before her on the kitchen table, Alison glanced up with a slight smile. 

‘Of course, you can ask,’ she began cautiously as she set the paperwork aside ‘but whether it is possible remains to be seen. Remember the mistletoe kiss you wanted?’ 

‘My apologies for the transgression!’ Thomas exclaimed, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead in a dramatic gesture ‘I was so blinded by your beauty that I forgot the impropriety of my request, as you are a married lady.’ 

‘And you are a dead man!’ Alison rejoined wryly ‘So even if I did fancy kissing you I couldn’t. Anyway, how can I help?’ 

‘I have always wondered what happened to me after I died’ Thomas replied. Noticing Alison’s puzzled frown, he added ‘What happened to my remains! Francis was not happy for my coffin to remain at Higham House overnight, as it would distress Isabella too much, so my corpse was taken away almost immediately for interment. From overheard conversations I gather I was to be buried at the Thorne family home near Chippenham, but neither Francis or Isabella attended my funeral three days later. By then they were busily embroiled with their wedding plans.’ 

Alison looked shocked. ‘Wow. That is a little cold, isn’t it? I thought a period of mourning was usually required?’ 

‘Isabella was never my fiancée, and Frances was a cousin, not a close relative, so their lives continued as if I had never existed. At the time it felt like a blessing, as I could not have borne witnessing Isabella’s grief. Now I know the true facts, I fear that Francis deliberately chose to divert her mind to wedding plans.’ 

‘Hmm - out of sight, out of mind.’ Alison replied pensively. 

‘I am puzzled why I was laid to rest at home rather than in the churchyard. Was I planted in the garden, as if I was some exotic bloom? While some wealthy families had private chapels, we did not. Perhaps my father disapproved of the manner of my death, and refused me the solace of a burial in consecrated ground. I know he favoured my cousin Horace over me and wished that Horace had been his son instead.’ 

‘Thomas, I am sure that is not true.’ Alison replied firmly. ‘Give me as much information as you can about your family home, and I’ll take it from there. If I can locate it, if it is open to the public and if it is possible, I am more than happy to travel there to take somes photo of any grave or memorial I find so that you can see it.’ 

‘It would be bittersweet but, in a way, it would bring me peace too.’ Thomas replied. ‘Can you also copy down any inscription; in case I cannot read it from the photograph?’ 

‘No problem, but just a word of warning.’ Alison continued. ‘A lot of manor houses are now hotels and if there is a chapel it might have been sold off separately and converted to a private home, with the interior gutted for new fixtures and fittings. There may be nothing left to photograph, but I promise I will try. Let me get these bills out of the way, and we’ll sit quietly together, you can tell me what you know, and we’ll go online and make a start.’ 

Alison smiled at Thomas’s effusive thanks, which were accompanied by many protestations of undying love as he reversed through the wall, bowing all the way. 

‘You have arrived at your destination.’ The soulless tones of the SatNav announced as Mike swung the car down the long driveway, passing the ornate sign to ‘Rose Lawns Wedding and Conference Centre.’ 

‘Rose Lawns’ remarked Mike ‘Presumably these are roses without any Thornes?’ He chuckled at his own joke. 

‘According to their website, the house was bought by a hotel group abut twenty-five years ago. The last Thorne died with no heir just after the War so it stood empty for fifty years or so. As no one ever come forward to claim it and no heirs could be found, the derelict house was sold off to the highest bidder, with the money going into the Treasury coffers. It’s quite sad really. I hope Thomas isn’t too upset.’ 

‘I think he’d be more upset if you took him back photos of a crumbling ruin.’ Mike murmured. ‘It doesn’t look bad. Quite like Button House, actually.’ 

They followed the signs to a neat car park, where they parked before walking to the house. 

‘Now, don’t forget, Mike. I am researching my family tree and have an interest in the Thorne family, especially Thomas Thorne, who died in 1824.’ Alison whispered. ‘It gives us an excuse to be nosey.’ 

‘Just in case we are asked, what year was he born?’ Mike asked, his hand on the door handle. 

‘He won’t say. He’s embarrassed to tell me exactly how old he is – can’t think why!’ Alison replied. ‘Mid thirties? A little older? I’m not sure.’ 

‘Yeah ….’ Mike replied thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he is actually older than he looks …' 

‘Hmm. By about two hundred years.’ Alison remarked wryly. 

The Manageress, Vicky, was expecting them and ushered them into a comfortable, modern office on the ground floor. 

‘As you can see, the house was extensively re-modelled during the restoration and has been updated many times since, so the public rooms will almost certainly not have anything of interest for you.’ 

She paused at Alison's crestfallen face then continued ‘There are the attics of course. Everything that was of possible use and not too ruined has been stored up there for almost seventy years now. Every now and again the valuers come around and check for anything worth selling – the market for antiques is constantly changing - but they find lean pickings, as I gather Arthur Thorne sold off most of the good stuff to pay for running repairs to quite literally keep the roof over his head. If you are not afraid of dust and spiders, you are welcome to search there.’ 

‘Dust and spiders? Alison murmured. ‘I live at Button House – those are the least of my worries!’ Vicky smiled back. 

‘I agree, these old houses are a nightmare! I’ll ask our Facilities Manager to take you up there. Everything you find up there is for sale, by the way, as according to the valuers what remains are low value items. I am sure I can do you a good deal if you find anything you like. We might be clearing the attic space soon for conversion to staff bedrooms, freeing up more of the existing rooms for paying guests, so this is possibly your last chance.’ Leaving the room, she soon returned with a rotund, grey-bearded man who she introduced as ‘Harry’. 

‘Harry will take you up to the attics. If I can be of any further help, please ask for me at Reception.’ 

‘One last thing.’ said Alison. ‘I believe there might be a chapel? We are especially keen to see it, as my ancestor Thomas Thorne was apparently buried there.’ 

Vicky appeared a little perplexed, turning to Harry ‘Do we have a chapel? ‘she asked him. ‘If we have one, it might be a good restoration project for the wedding business.’ 

‘I think they must mean the old barn.’ Harry replied. ‘It does have arched windows around the back, after all. I can’t remember ever setting foot into it, to be honest. The locks are rusted, there is no key and the hinges have seized. Probably only full of old rubbish.’ 

‘Well, I think it is worth investigating.’ Vicky replied firmly in a no-nonsense tone. Harry touched his hand to the brim of his flat cap and said ‘You’re the boss. I’ll go over there after taking them up to the attics and soak the hinges in WD-40. The door is so rotted the lock will probably fall off with a good shove. We may as well get filthy dirty instead of just dusty, after all!’ 

To Mike’s relief the attics were in considerably better shape than those in Button House, with no risk of putting your foot through worm-eaten floorboards. Clearly the restoration of the fabric of the building had included this space too. Harry handed Mike a walkie-talkie. ‘When you’ve finished, give me a call and I'll take you over to the barn. Good luck ….’ he added enigmatically. 

Left alone, Alison took in the mammoth task before them. Serried ranks of ancient bedsteads, wardrobes, sideboards and writing desks reached the entire length of the roof-space, which ran from one end of the building to the other. Meagre light came through the dirty windows, and the unshaded light bulbs gave a feeble glare in the gloom. 

Alison wandered down the row, opening drawers and cupboards at random but finding nothing of interest. Vicky was right. Most of this was rubbish, either too workaday – servant's furniture? - or too damaged to sell. She stood awhile, assessing a battered roll-top writing desk which had caught her attention. One of the ball-and-claw feet was missing and it leaned drunkenly to one side. It looked Georgian to her, and she tried to open the cover. 

‘Dammit!’ she exclaimed to find it locked, with no key. ‘This might have been Thomas’s desk... it is certainly the right period.’ 

Mike strolled over and after checking that Harry had returned downstairs, he fished in his coat pocket for his penknife and after a few minutes of fiddling and a slight splintering of wood he managed to open the desk, shedding a deluge of sheets of paper and quill pens to the floor. ‘Whoa!’ he exclaimed stepping back from the papers that covered his trainers. 

‘Oh my!’ Alison exclaimed, sitting suddenly on the dusty floor as her legs felt as if they were about to give way. Her eyes scanned the stanzas on the pages. The looping scrawl was unfamiliar and difficult to read, but the style of the verse was so, so familiar. In her mind she could hear Thomas’s voice proclaiming his love for her – often using these very words. 

‘This is his – it’s Thomas's poetry!’ She exclaimed. ‘Mike - we have to buy this.’ 

Mike grunted. He had a feeling today was going to be expensive. Alison was carefully stacking the papers and quills before checking the other drawers. With little whoop of joy, she found a tiny miniature portrait of a young woman with light brown hair and blue eyes. In another drawer she found a folded sheet sealed with a paper wafer, with the single word ‘Thomas’ written on it. A letter. She decided not to open it as these words were for Thomas alone. She studied the portrait again, wondering if the letter was from the lady. ‘I bet this is Isabelle!’ she exclaimed and added it to her pile. Satisfied that the remaining drawers only contained stocks of blank paper, dried-up ink bottles, sealing wax, string and a box of unused quills, she closed the drawers again, carefully pulling down the roll-top again to hide Mike’s vandalism. Finally, she took a photograph of the desk, tilting her phone to try and correct the lean. Thomas might be sad to see his beloved desk so battered and broken, but would be delighted to read his words again, and gaze again upon the face of his beloved. 

Mike had wandered to the far reaches of the attic, where a forest of chair legs loomed against the wall. ‘This is the chair graveyard.’ he pronounced. ‘Wait - what’s this? Alison! Look at this!’ 

Alison trotted down to meet him, carefully carrying her precious armfuls of prose, the miniature and letter carefully stowed in her pocket for safe keeping.. 

‘What have you found?’ she asked. 

‘Portraits.’ Said Mike, picking up three or four old, dirty canvases I damaged frames and laying them onto the chairs. ‘Recognize any of them?’ 

The older man and lady were unknown to her, but the third portrait was unmistakable. About fifteen years younger than the face she knew so well; this was Thomas Thorne. The young lady she guessed to be his sister as the family resemblance was clear. Another look convinced her that the older couple must be his parents. 

Gently, almost reverently, Alison laid her hand on the painted cheek. ‘Mike, meet Thomas.’ she said, softly. 

Mike glowered a little, an unexpected jealousy bubbling up in response to Alison’s tenderness towards a man he considered his rival despite him being dead nearly 200 years. 

‘Hmph! Bit of a fop, isn’t he? Not much for any woman to fancy there – not very manly! No wonder he died unmarried.’’ he sneered, then immediately regretted his words. Even to his own ears they sounded petty and insulting. 

‘Mike, he’s dead.’ Alison admonished gently. ‘He’s a sweetheart and hopelessly romantic, but it isn’t as if I’m going to embark on a passionate affair with him, am I?’ 

‘I just wish he wasn’t so good looking.’ Mike mourned. Alison elbowed him in the ribs with a grin on her face. ‘Not a patch on you, my darling.’ she replied. 

‘Right - if that’s all, we’ll take these treasures downstairs and see if we can afford them.’ Mike said, raising the walkie talkie to his face and pressing the button. 

When Alison triumphantly displayed her finds, Vicky looked at the portraits with a jaundiced eye. ‘I asked the valuer about these, but he said as they are clearly by a provincial artist and of unimportant people, they have very little value. People do not want faces of nobodies on their walls. Shall we say £200 for all four?’ 

‘They will need professionally cleaning, which will cost us a lot, and the frames are broken.’ Alison pleaded ‘and Thomas Thorne is my ancestor, so I am the only person who would be interested in him. Can we have a better price?’ 

‘Let me think a while.’ said Vicky, pulling the sheaf of paper towards her. ‘What is this?’ 

They are poems written by my ancestor. He was a poet, you see.’ Alison explained. 

Do you mind if I research any provenance here? If he is a known poet, we may be looking at a fortune.’ ’Vicky turned towards her laptop, searching for any records. ‘He is seemingly unknown and unpublished, so again they are of little value to anyone other than yourself. How about if I charge you £180 for the four portraits and the poems?’ 

Alison sat a moment, her brain busy with calculations. She could just about afford it. ‘Deal!’ she said, leaning over the desk to shake Vicky by the hand. 

‘Very good. I’ll get everything packed up for you while you visit the barn, then you can stop by Reception and pay.’ Alison carried Thomas’s portrait over to the window to admire it in better light before it was wrapped. Compared to Gainsborough or Reynolds she had to admit this was a poorly executed portrait, but nonetheless Alison was incredibly happy to have found it. 

Harry reappeared to take them to the barn. it was an unedifying trek through brambles and nettles to reach an old neglected building behind the house. A few sharp blows with a hammer sent the ancient rusting lock clattering to the ground and after much shoving by all three - and much cursing on Harry’s part – the door hinges squealed their protest after being forced to move, and the afternoon sunlight streamed into the neglected space. 

‘Well, I’ll be jiggered.’ exclaimed Harry, pushing his cap to the back of his head. Ivy and the branches from overhanging trees dimmed the remaining stained glass behind the stone altar, and the checkerboard tiles beneath their feet had lifted in places where determined weeds had forced their way through. Holes in the roof shafted sunbeams and dancing dust motes onto the walls and floor, both of which were streaked with generations of pigeon droppings. Rotting pews had been pushed aside many decades ago. 

Alison stopped with an indrawn breath. There on the wall was a marble relief in an oval surround. The profile of a gentleman. A face she knew well. Her eyes filled with tears as she read the inscription: 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 

THOMAS FREDERICK THORNE 

PRECIOUS SON OF FREDERICK AND ANNE THORNE, 

A POET AND A BEAUTIFUL SOUL WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE 

OCTOBER 10TH 1824, IN HIS 37TH YEAR. 

NEVER WAS THERE A MORE BELOVED SON. 

A LIGHT DIMS FROM OUR LIVES AT HIS PASSING. 

SLEEP WELL, MY GENTLE BOY. 

They loved him so much. Alison turned to take Mike’s hand, seeking comfort only to find him gone. She was preparing to search for him when he reappeared, a bunch of petrol-station flowers in his hand. ‘Sorry they aren’t very fancy.’ he explained. I picked them up when we stopped for fuel and put them into the boot, just in case we got here and found him. I asked Harry if we can clean him up a bit for the photo.’ 

Harry shortly reappeared with a bucket of soapy water, a scrubbing brush and a rag. He obligingly cleaned most of the pigeon poo away from Thomas’s marble face and the inscription. ‘After all, he’s your FAMILY and deserves respect’ he said solemnly. 

Alison took the bunch of yellow and white chrysanthemums, and after arranging her scarf on the rotting wood of the back rail of a broken pew below Thomas’s plaque, she placed the flowers on top. Alison took several photographs while Mike and Harry fought their way around the side of the chapel to try and remove as much of the ivy from the stained glass as possible without causing any further damage. By twisting the wet rag onto a long branch, they were even able to clean off some of the grime. Alison took photos of the windows for Thomas too. 

Vicky tippy-toed her way into the chapel on unsuitably high heels, appraising the building with a proprietorial eye. 

‘You know, this could be turned into a nice little wedding chapel. We can hire in celebrants and offer it as part of the bridal package. Thank you for letting us know it was here in the first place. We were considering demolishing it to extend the car park. As a reward, would you accept those old portraits and papers as a finder's fee? There is no point in leaving them up there to decay after all and we are unlikely to find another buyer. If you saw anything else up there you would like, just ask.’ 

Alison was checking out the rest of the chapel. ‘Why is Thomas here alone? Where are his parents, his sister?’ she puzzled. 

Ah. I’ve been doing some digging through the deeds and documents while you were busy. Come back to my office and I think I can show you.’ Vicky replied. Alison took one last, lingering glance at the memorial, and at the tiled floor beneath where she suspected Thomas lay, then followed Vicky out into the sunlight and across to the main building. 

Vicky had a large manilla folder on her desk. ‘These are the plans of the buildings when the company took the place on.’ she explained, pointing an exquisitely manicured finger at a building marked with a cross. Next to it was a patch of land marked ‘burial ground’ 

‘I think the building WAS originally a barn, a stable or a carriage store, but Frederick Thorne converted it to a chapel in honour of his beloved son. Thomas was buried outside until the conversion was complete. He was then re-interred beneath the floor of the chapel. It was a place they could remember him and be close to him. They chose to be buried there themselves, but their bodies were never moved inside the chapel. we will never know why. Unfortunately, the tombstones were lifted when the water main was put in. As is usual in the case of human remains the bones were re-interred at the local church, while the stones were stood by the wall. It was a usual practice in those days.’ 

Where is the church? I’d like to photograph the stones and write down the inscriptions.’ Alison asked. Vicky gave her directions, as she helped her to pack the paintings into the boot. 

‘You know,’ Vicky said thoughtfully. ‘Thomas’s story would make a great screenplay. With a little more fame, you might even find a publisher for his poems, and it would drive business to the chapel, so a win-win all around.’ 

‘I’m not sure he’d - WE’D - like that’ Alison replied. ‘This is family business and is private.’ 

‘But surely there would be no harm? All the participants in this little drama are well dead. Let me make some calls for you...’ Vicky pressed. 

‘Thank you for all your help, but we can take it from here.’ Goodbye.’ Alison replied, climbing into the passenger seat and gesturing for Mike to get them out of there fast! 

The church was only a five-minute drive away, and Alison soon found the weathered gravestones of Thomas’s parents, which she took careful photographs of and noted down what she could read of the faded lettering. There was no sign of a tombstone for his sister though, and Mike remarked that she had probably married and moved away. Alison wished she had brought extra flowers for these graves too, but Mike wandered around the churchyard until he found a large patch of self-seeded daffodils in a far corner, which he picked for Alison to place on the graves, giving her his reassurance he hadn't pinched them from another grave!. ‘These are from Thomas.’ she whispered quietly as she stood back to take a final photo with the daffodils in place. 

The emotions of the day finally crashed over her, and she felt immensely weary. ‘Mike - let’s go home. I only hope this isn’t all too much for Thomas.’ she sighed.


	2. Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas's reactions to Alison's sleuthing, and Humphrey has a request .....

Before unpacking the car, Alison enlisted Pat to distract all the others while she sneaked the contents of the boot in the library, got it all unwrapped and hidden safely under covers. She then took ten minutes to arrange the photographs from her phone into a slideshow on her laptop. 

Alison had decided that Thomas should see the relics of his past alone, without input from his fellow ghosts. It was all too personal. If emotion overcame him, the last thing Thomas would need would be Julian's mockery or Cap telling him to ‘buck his ideas up, man, and stop snivelling.’ 

Alison finally took off her coat with a sigh and was surprised that it felt oddly unbalanced when she hung it on the hall peg. With a squeak she remembered the portrait miniature and the letter. For a moment guilt stabbed trough her – she had clean forgotten to mention these to Vicky and the miniature might be really valuable. However, when she asked Mike whether she should come clean, he pointed out that the valuers must have found the miniature and left it behind. Also, Vicky had said she could have anything else they wanted. Alison wasn’t so sure. 

‘I’m sure the casing is gold and the painting behind the glass is exquisite. People collect miniatures.’ she fretted. Mike examined the miniature more closely. 

‘It’s not glass – it's rock crystal. It was polished and used to protect top quality miniatures as it was clearer than any glass produced at the time.’ 

‘How on earth do you know that? ‘Alison exclaimed. 

‘Blame Lucy Worsley.’ Mike replied. As he took her hands and folded them over the miniature. ‘Think about it. Who does the picture really belong to? REALLY?’ 

‘Thomas.’ Alison replied quietly. 

‘Don’t you think this must be fate? That the valuers overlooked it all those times, and it waited in that desk for you to eventually return it to its owner? Perhaps there is a ghost in that attic that you can’t see who guided you to that desk among half a dozen others? I think you were meant to find it.’ Alison glanced up at him ‘How did you get to be so wise?’ she asked. 

‘Practice’ replied Mike with a grin. ‘We really need to get those portraits presentable.’ 

In the privacy of the library, Alison looked over the grimy portraits then phoned an art conservator friend, who advised her to gently wipe the portraits and the frames with a clean cotton cloth damped in warm water to remove any surface dust. She also offered to come over to stay one weekend and do a better job on them, free of charge. Meanwhile, Mike arrived with a large packet of Blu-Tack to hold the split frames together – again a temporary ‘fix’ so the damage wasn’t so distressing to Thomas. Mike would take his time over the repairs later. 

While Pat obligingly distracted Thomas with a pointless conversation about the best sauce to accompany roast beef, Alison gathered the others in the kitchen to quickly inform them that she had discovered Thomas’s past, and that he would really need their understanding and privacy before he shared anything with them – and sharing would be his choice. Mary stared at her shoes silently, made painfully aware of her own unwillingness to share. Amid the general murmurs of approval Julian surprisingly agreed that this was a special time for Thomas, and that he wouldn’t rock the boat. This led Robin to wonder aloud where Alison had found Thomas’s boat, and would he be sailing it on the lake? 

‘Better than jumping in to drown himself!’ Robin chortled with a grin. Surprisingly, a mellowed Julian took the time to explain the phrase to the caveman but Robin still did not understand. 

‘Me never been on boat.’ he exclaimed ‘Not know if they rock or not.’. 

Julian gave up in exasperation before turning to Alison and pensively remarking that if Alison ever did something similar for him, he would like privacy at the ‘unveiling’ too. 

‘I have not always been a very nice person, and have much to be ashamed of.’ he added ‘But I do have unanswered questions about what happened after my death. The internet covers the scandal, but how did the notoriety affect my family?’ 

A germ of an idea grew in Alison’s mind – would the other ghosts like something similar? She decided to see how Thomas's 'reveal' fared, and allow the others to approach her privately if they wanted riddles solved.

Alison asked the others to wait in the kitchen until called, and set off to find Pat and Thomas. 

In answer to Alison’s request, Thomas followed her cautiously into the library. Part of him regretted his request. Was raking up the past a good thing, or would it lead to more distress for him? Had Alison been able to find anything? A bubble of anticipation rose in his chest, along with a queasy feeling that perhaps she had found nothing and he was lost to history, remembered by nobody. Lying unmarked and unmourned in the garden of his childhood home – if that home even still existed. He might be under a car park by now, like poor King Richard.

He noticed that the long wooden settle opposite the window had an old blanket tented across it, hiding something from his view. Alison also had a leather portfolio style folder on the desk beside her. Her laptop stood ready to display the photographs. 

‘Thomas.’ she began. ‘You asked me to find your … final resting place. Are you ready for my discoveries?’ 

Thomas nodded mutely, sitting forward eagerly in his seat, his eyes fixed on the laptop screen. 

‘Your home is now a conference and wedding venue’. Alison continued, showing several photos she had taken of the exterior and interior of the building. ‘The last Thorne, Arthur, died just after World War 2, and the building stood empty until the late 1990’s, by which time it was pretty derelict.’ 

‘As you can see, it has been completely gutted - but the exterior is pretty much unchanged.’ Alison added. Thomas looked shell-shocked. So far this was not going well. 

Thomas was unable to reply, his throat felt tight with grief. The house looked the same from the outside ut immaculately pained and clean, and he wondered which of the rose-beds and carefully manicured lawns covered his poor bones. The interior refurbishments left him shocked. So modern! How could somebody dream of destroying such a beautiful old house? 

‘However, you’ll be pleased to hear they threw as little as possible away, and anything that was remotely salvageable was moved into the attic in case it had value. Arthur Thorne had sold off most of the best bit to repair the house, but there was still some furnishings left ‘ 

‘When I was a child, that entire attic was my playroom.’ Thomas interjected. ‘It was a huge space. Felicity and I would spend hours, just playing happily or running races from one end to the other, building obstacle courses with our toys. Our own little kingdom.’ 

‘Was she your sister? Is this Felicity?’ Alison asked gently, moving to the settle, and flicking back the edge of the blanket to display the portrait of the girl with brown eyes. 

Thomas made a sound midway between a gasp and a sob, throwing himself on his knees before the portrait while desperately raising shaking hands to touch the beloved image. Of course, his hands passed through the canvas. ‘She was two years younger than me and married at twenty, about fifteen years before I … died. Her husband owned a large estate in Cornwall, so visits between us were infrequent due to the travelling distance involved, but I remember some splendid Christmases there, with my nephews and nieces. Days full of love and laughter, and to be honest, I needed those day as life at home was - difficult.’ 

‘You see, there was a family tragedy not long after Felicity’s wedding and my parents had taken their orphaned nephew, my cousin Horace, into their home. He was an eighteen-year-old who was studying at Oxford, and to be honest I was glad for term-time as he would temporarily remove into lodgings near his university and I had some respite. He was a sneering, supercilious bounder determined to ruin my life. If I admired a lady, Horace would take peculiar pains to steal her affections from me. Goading me was a sport to him, for he would always beat me. He was handsome, athletic and witty – everything I was not. He would pry open my desk and steal my poetry, passing it off as his own to seduce any maiden that took his fancy. This is why I made a habit of including the name of my beloved in my verses.’ 

‘He ingratiated himself with my parents until by the time I reached thirty and he twenty-six I felt quite supplanted by him. He had married by then, bringing his bride into MY home and supplanting me from my spacious bedroom to a smaller room at the back of the house, barely fit for a servant. Once his wife produced a son my position was desperate, as my father made it clear he expected me to marry and become a parent myself. This is why I wondered if his choice of burial plot for me was due to his disappointment that I was not more like Horace...’ 

‘Thomas - I think you should see this, as it is important. Do you remember a barn behind your house?’ Alison asked. 

‘Do you mean the carriage store?’ Thomas replied. 

‘Yes. This is what your father did with it, because he loved you so dearly.’ Alison replied, wincing slightly at the dilapidated state of the chapel as displayed on the screen. She hurriedly moved the slideshow on to a close up of the stained-glass windows, then finally to Thomas’s memorial. As he gazed his full, Alison read out the words inscribed there. By the time she reached ‘Sleep well, my gentle boy’ the tears were flowing unchecked down both their faces, even though Thomas’s dried and vanished within seconds. All Alison wanted to do was put her arms around him and hold him close. At that moment Mike popped his head around the door, slightly shocked to see his wife in tears. Alison mouthed for him to fetch Pat, as she felt his soothing presence would help Thomas. Mike hurried to the seemingly empty kitchen, looked upwards at the ceiling and loudly asked for Pat to go to the library as he was needed. Fortunately, Pat was awaiting the call, and silently morphed through the library door. 

Immediately sensing Thomas’s distress, Pat sat beside him on the sofa, taking him tightly in his arms and murmuring soothing words while he rubbed his back, remembering how he used to soothe Daley when he was distraught. It was a lot easier with a small boy rather than a gangly grown man, but Pat did his best. Quietly, Alison brought Pat up to speed and he nodded understandingly. Finally, she removed the blanket from the portraits of Thomas’s parents. Thomas drew in a huge, sobbing breath as once more the tears flowed. He left Pat’s steadying embrace to kneel before the portrait of his father. 

‘Father, forgive me.’ he faltered. ‘For so long I believed that you were ashamed of me for wasting my life with poetry, chasing fame and plaudits that eluded me while you patiently fed, clothed and housed me, giving me every comfort at the cost to your own pocket and none to mine. I believed that you favoured Horace but now I see that you treated us both the same. I recall that our last conversation did not end well. When I informed you of my plan to ask for Isabella’s hand in marriage you remarked that I should hope my mission was successful. Unless I married and produced an heir, you would leave Thorne Manor to Horace, as he already had a son to continue the family name. Then Francis turned up and invited himself along to Higham House and once there stole my last chance of happiness with his lies and deceit, and then stole my life too. Today has proved to me that you did love me, and that I was not banished to the garden after my death.’ 

Thomas again tried to touch the paintings to place one hand on his mother’s cheek and one on his father’s, but with no success. Pat helped him up, and sat beside him again on the settee, holding his hand for comfort. Alison explained about his parents' re-burial in the churchyard, and showed him photographs of their tombstones, reading the inscriptions for him. Thomas asked if all the photographs that Alison had shown him could be printed out and displayed in his bedroom, and even though in a poor condition, the portraits too. Alison asked to hold on to the portraits for a while, as the frames needed attention and she was hoping the canvases could be cleaned. Thomas asked if the restoration work could be conducted at Button House, so that he could watch the centuries of dust and grime being removed. 

‘I’m sure that will be okay.’ Alison said. ‘Kirsty needs a good light for her work, so this room should be ideal. As she won’t be able to see you, you will not disturb her, and the others might enjoy watching the process too.’ 

‘I’ve more for you.’ Said Alison, unfastening the leather folio onto the desk to spread out some of the pages within. Thomas bent over them eagerly. 

‘These are mine!’ he exclaimed, his eyes scanning the lines of prose. ‘My poems for Isabella!’ 

‘I count at least thirty of them – you were prolific! Which brings me neatly to the next item.’ said Alison proudly, as she laid the miniature portrait on the desk. Thomas bent his curly head reverently, attempting to place his lips onto the rock crystal cover of the jewel, as he had so often in life. 

‘Can I entreat Mike to make me a stand for this, so that I can place it on the table beside my bed, in order that I can see my angel’s face before I go to sleep and again when I awake? 

‘I think Fanny can help with that one’. Pat piped up. ‘She has in her room one of those silver cases designed to hold a pocket watch and turn it into a bedside clock – I think it must have been George’s. It is a bit black and tarnished but I’m sure it would clean up, and the aperture is about the right size.’ 

I would be so grateful.’ Thomas whispered. ‘Do you think she would let it go?’ 

‘I don’t think Fanny holds any fondness for George, so it probably has no sentimental value for her. I’m sure she would give it to you.’ Pat replied soothingly. 

At that moment Mike popped his head around the door again. ‘Julian is writing in the bathroom steam again. He has written ‘IS T OK’ and as I can’t imagine he is offering me a cuppa, I didn’t write back ‘No, I prefer coffee’. My guess is that the others are wondering how things are going in here?’ 

Alison glanced at Thomas, who, without raising his head said ‘Ask them all in. I want them to know as it might explain some of my ... oddities. At least this story has a kind of happy ending. At least I know now that I was loved.’ 

Alison passed the message along to Mike to invite the others into the library. He, returned to the kitchen and announced the news, assuming that the ghosts had left the bathroom. Deciding to be safe rather than sorry, he trooped upstairs to the bathroom too and repeated the message. Finally, he slipped downstairs into the library himself to try and make sense of what was being said. Alison had turned the laptop around so that her audience could see, so Mike assumed that all were assembled. 

Alison paused a moment to survey her odd little family. A family. That perfectly described them. For all Julian’s crudeness, The Captain’s stiff-backed pride and Fanny’s disapproval, she loved them all and had no doubt that they would rally round and support Thomas if he needed them. in fact, rather surprisingly Julian had joined Pat and Thomas on the settee and had tucked his arm through Thomas’s in silent support. 

The Captain stood ramrod straight behind the settee, and after the tiniest hesitation, laid his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Thomas glanced up gratefully as The Captain cleared his throat, murmuring ‘Steady, lad.’ 

Robin sat cross-legged on the floor at Thomas’s feet. He smiled up sympathetically. ‘Not to be sad.’ He remarked as he hugged Thomas’s stockinged calf. ‘We all here for you.’. 

Kitty and Mary paused on their way to their own seats, Kitty surprising Thomas with a quick kiss on the cheek before giggling shyly and hurrying away, while Mary ruffled his hair affectionately before patting his cheek, leaving a smudge of soot which The Captain obligingly cleaned off with his pocket handkerchief. Fanny took her usual seat, with Humphrey’s head on her lap. Humphrey treated him to a broad wink while Fanny bestowed him a rare smile of encouragement. Mike asked where he should sit, and Alison pointed him to a vacant chair. 

Feeling horribly as if she was giving a business presentation, Alison cleared her throat and began to speak. 

‘Thomas approached me a week ago and asked if I could find out where his body was interred, as there seemed to be some puzzling details. Thomas would like to share the results with you.’ 

She briefly explained everything that had happened, displaying the photographs and the items she had discovered at the appropriate points of her narration. There were appreciative ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ at the photographs of the chapel, and the three ladies were visibly moved by the dedication. There was a scramble to hurry over to the settle to view the portraits, and then to the desk to read the poems and examine the miniature. 

‘Thank you all for caring.’ Thomas said quietly ‘It is good to know that I have such wonderful friends who hold me affection, even if many of you witnessed my ignominious death.’ 

‘Not friends – family.’ Robin muttered. ‘We all family now. Death not igno …. ignor … all bad, for it brought you to us. New family.’’ 

‘I agree’ Fanny remarked. ‘and I am delighted for you to have the watch stand that Alison mentioned. I’ll ask her to collect it from my room and polish it for you.’ 

‘If I give it a coat a varnish after it is polished, it won’t go dull again.’ offered Mike, unwilling to add polishing the tarnish from a silver case to his list of weekly tasks. 

Thomas tried to thank them all again, but words failed him as the emotion of the day took over. Wordlessly, the ghosts rose to their feet and gathered around Thomas in a group hug, even Julian muttering ‘Hey! You’re my annoying little brother, and I wouldn’t trade you for all the tea in China.’ 

‘Ah! You mean tea in china cup? That not much. Tea in pot is more.’ Robin stated, leaving Julian to patiently attempt to explain a figure of speech for the second time in one day. 

The group broke up, Robin making an early escape from Julian’s boring description of the individual characteristics of Lapsang Souchon and Oolong teas while the others drifted away in pairs - no doubt to discuss the revelations amongst themselves. Thomas and Alison remained in the library. 

Alison took the envelope from her pocket, turning it over her hands before glancing towards Thomas, who was gazing at Isabelle’s picture with a fond, gentle smile on his face. For a second Alison was angry with Francis as Thomas had clearly felt true love for Isabelle before his future was ripped away by another’s greed. How different thing might have panned out ...

‘Thomas - I have something else for you. It was in your desk, and I think was originally on top of your poems before the desk was moved up to the attic. It is unopened – maybe it is from Isabelle?’ 

Thomas closely examined the copperplate script on the outside. ‘No - this is my father’s hand.’ he replied, his voice slightly choked with emotion. ‘Can you open it and spread it out on the desk for me, please?’ 

‘Okay …' Alison began, cautiously studying the object in her hand ‘If I can find out how to open it without tearing it. It seems to have some paper glued on the outside.’ 

‘You need a penknife. You carefully insert the blade into the fold at the corner, then cut gently up through the gummed paper disk – the wafer. You repeat that on the other three sides, and you should be able to open it. It might be letter-locked, which was a method of folding to prevent the letter being read while still folded, but my father only used that method for financial matters when corresponding with the bank or his solicitor.’ 

Alison fished in the desk, and finally found a Butler’s Friend corkscrew that incorporated a little penknife and after some prodding, cutting and pulling, managed to spread out the single sheet of paper. 

Thomas bent eagerly to read. 

‘My Darling Son, 

Today you came home to us, but not in the manner we hoped for. Instead of the joyous return of a prospective bridegroom, a wagon pulled up at our door bearing your coffin. 

At the moment you are resting in the drawing room while your sorrowful mother sits vigil by your side. We have sent a message to your sister, but the message alone will take a clear day to reach her in Cornwall. I sat with you awhile, but my grief overcame me, so I have retreated to your bedroom, to pen this missive while sitting at your desk, to be close to you. 

I bitterly regret our last conversation. I spoke out of term. I have never favoured Horace over you, and it was disingenuous of me to imply that you should hurry into marriage and fatherhood simply to please me, or provide a direct Thorne heir. Had I not behaved so, you might not have rushed to Button House in an attempt to secure your bride, and your precious life would not have been lost. I know no details of the reason for the duel, but I believe a lady's honour was insulted. Perhaps Francis will tell me more eventually. I was disappointed that he did not accompany you on your last journey home, but he felt it more important to comfort poor Isabelle, who is distraught.

My kindness and affection to Horace during his years under our roof was driven by pity for his plight – to lose both parents and his home in the fire while he was far distant at Oxford is a tragedy for any young lad. My immediate thought was to behave in the way I would expect you for and Felicity to be treated if the sad situation was reversed – that my poor brother Robert would have given my children a home, and treated you as his own. 

Please forgive the intrusion, but I have read your verse. I think it truly beautiful, with every word straight from your tender and passionate heart. Isabelle would have been truly blessed to be your wife and your success as a poet of note would have swiftly followed.. 

It is almost impossible to fathom that I will never see your smile again, or kiss your brow, or hear your voice. 

My tears are flowing so fast I can scarce see the paper before me anymore. I will seal up this letter and leave it with your poems in this desk. I will lock the desk and discard the key, so that your pen strokes will never fade with time and vanish from the page. 

Sleep well, my gentle boy, 

Your Loving Father.’ 

Thomas moved to the window, staring out sightlessly while Alison quickly scanned the letter. Frederick Thorne’s writing was even harder to read than his son’s, using those strange elongated ‘f’ letters instead of ‘s’, and with each letter heavily elaborated with curlicues and flourishes. The page was also besmirched with long-dried tear stains. 

She had reached the final line – the repeat of the phrase on the memorial bringing tears to her own eyes – when Thomas spoke. 

‘I want the desk back’ He said, quietly. ‘and the chair. It as a balloon-backed chair with a dark blue velvet seat. My father sat at that desk, upon that chair to pen this missive to me. It is a link with him and with all I hold dear.’ 

Alison paused. ‘Yes - I agree. that desk was a time capsule, in a way. The manageress did say we could have anything the wanted from the attic, but the desk is really in a terrible state. Even getting it back down the stairs might be the end of it. As for the chair, there is a jumble of about two dozen chairs up there and the light is very poor. But it can’t help to ask, can it? I’m sure Mike can borrow the farm shop van to drive up and collect the desk, and look for the chair. He can also run some repairs on the desk once we get it back here – providing we can find the missing foot.... if not, it will have to have a peg-leg.’ 

Thomas dropped to his knees, clasping his hands before him in entreaty. ‘Please try for me, Alison.’ he asked earnestly. 

‘There is no need to ask!’ Alison replied, cupping her hands around Thomas’s in the nearest she could get to a touch. ‘and if we can get it, I’m sure Mike will do his best for you. We’ll print out the photos to go onto your wall and put the portfolio of poems in your room tomorrow. As they are so old, I think if we pin the poems on your wall the light will quickly fade them, which will undo all your father’s efforts to preserve them. How about we keep them in the portfolio, and I take out one every day and lay it out for you to read? Once the paintings are restored, we can display them here in the library if you would like it?’’ 

Thomas bowed his head so that his incorporeal forehead lay upon Alison’s hands. ‘I will be eternally grateful for everything you have done for me today, and providing Lady Button does not object to portraits of non-family members gracing her walls, I would be honoured for you to hang them here.’ he said, before rising to his feet, bending in a courtly bow and leaving the room. 

Alison was about to leave when she heard a throat being cleared behind her. 

‘Hello Humphrey!’ she exclaimed ‘Have they all forgotten you again.’ 

‘Ah - not to worry, I’m used to it!’ he replied ‘but it is fortuitous in a way, as I also have a request.’ 

‘Oh, yes?’ Alison responded; her curiosity piqued. She sat down in the chair beside Humphrey, wishing she could turn his head to face her, instead of the window. 

‘I’m not worried about where I’m buried’ Humphrey continued ‘As my ending was ignominious to say the least, I'm probably a ditch somewhere so there won’t be anything left. I saw my remains being stripped of my fine clothing then dragged away on a cart, so I suspect the village gibbet was the destination for my body, while my head provided a handy football for an impromptu football match. Instead, I would like to find out what happened to my wife, and my children. You are the first person here who has access to the internet, so can research these things for me. It might sound silly after four hundred years or so, but I still worry about them.’ 

‘Okay - we’ll talk about it, but first I need to ask Mike to phone Vicky at Rose Lawns about the desk and the chair, and warn him to brush up his carpentry skills. There is also the watch case to clean. Once I’ve given him the list of jobs, I’ll grab my notebook, and we’ll make a start. Wait here …' 

‘I don’t really have a choice, do I?’ Humphrey replied with a grin and a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got this up a day earlier than expected. 
> 
> I think I'll need a few days to write Humphrey, as I need to be historically accurate to tie in with the death dates of various monarchs ..... Hopefully it will be ready within a week or so, maybe earlier.


	3. Humphrey's Horrible History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humphrey relates his story, and Alison is set a tricky task

‘Right - all done.’ Alison remarked as she returned to the library. ‘Mike has called Vicky to make sure she doesn’t torch the contents of the attic before he can get back for the desk, and he has asked if Harry can check through the old chairs to see if there is a balloon-backed chair with a blue velvet seat. She is a little mystified why we want that chair in particular, so Mike improvised and said we had noticed the desk and chair in the background of Thomas’s portrait. We saw the desk and wondered if the chair was also there.’ 

She turned Humphrey’s chair to a better angle so she could see his face clearly. It was the first time she had studied him close up, and she realised he was possibly a little older than she had thought, although still decidedly handsome. Laughter lines were crinkled around his blue eyes, and some care lines furrowed his brow – perhaps he was nearer his fifties than forties, she guessed. 

‘Now - how do you want to begin this?’ she asked Humphrey, notebook in hand. His death sounded horrendous and she didn’t want to force him to relive the horror of it all. Heads being chopped off and used as footballs couldn’t be good memories, especially if it was your own. 

‘Let’s start at the very beginning.’ Humphrey suggested. 

‘A very good place to start,’ Alison sang beneath her breath. Humphrey looked puzzled. ‘Sorry - it’s a song. From a film. Actually ‘The Sound of Music’ might be good for Film Night. It is set during the war, which will please The Captain. Pat and Julian will remember it, there is romance for Kitty, Fanny and Thomas, and is packed with jolly songs for Mary and Robin to enjoy or even sing along with if they can pick them up - especially if it becomes a Film Night favourite and they watch it often enough. But I digress. If at any time all this is too painful, just let me know and we’ll stop.’ 

‘Nah - I should be fine.’ Humphrey said breezily. ‘Everyone here know my story – I am open about how I died as I know I was completely innocent. I came to terms with it all hundreds of years ago.’ 

‘You know, of all our family, I consider you to be the most level headed,’ Alison said, ‘The most down-to-earth, the one with his head screwed on...’ Humphrey’s shout of laughter broke her train of thought. ‘Ohmigod! What an awful thing to say to you! I’m so sorry - I didn’t think …' 

‘Don’t worry!’ Humphrey chuckled. ‘A screw-thread on my neck stump would be really useful actually. Or a big bolt like the monster in that film that Thomas chose for us to watch, as it was based on Mary Shelley’s book.’ 

‘I wish there was some way I could help.’ Alison said sadly ‘but I can’t touch you, or even put some sort of surgical collar on you, as it would just fall straight through you. Of all of us, you have to struggle more with day-to-day life – death, I mean - yet stay so positive and cheerful.’ 

‘Well, there is no point in crying over spilt milk, is there? ‘he replied, ‘at least I have friends here, when they remember to collect me that is! Not like poor Robin who lived here all alone for millennia before anyone else arrived. I don’t even mind lying on the floor so often. It’s not their fault that I am so low down. Now back to my story.’ 

‘Did you know my life encompassed the reign of four monarchs? Henry, Edward, Mary and Elizabeth. They got through ‘em quickly in those days! I was born in 1539, to a fairly wealthy family, but my father had made his fortune in a slightly dodgy way. He was one of Henry VIII’s Land Agents. He went from Monastery to Abbey to Monastery to Abbey, looking over their books of tithed and tenanted farmers, the houses they owned, the almshouses and inns they ran, and the places of worship they owned, and all were seized. Part of the perks of the job was that he was allowed to extract any rents outstanding by the tenants and keep the money as his fee before their new contracts as Crown tenants began. There were other gleanings to be had too – the odd silver chalice, or a bible with a jewelled cover for breaking off, and he freely helped himself to anything else portable that caught his eye. He amassed a vast amount of money very quickly, and spent it on enlarging and glorifying this house, re-naming it Carnell Hall.’ 

‘Is that your surname, Carnell?’ Alison asked, surprised. ‘Not Higham.’ 

‘The Highams came later, and we’ll get to them eventually.’ Humphrey continued. ‘Our family was not popular in the neighborhood due to my father’s work, as the local church used to support the poorer villagers extensively while the Catholics were in charge, but under Henry the Poor House closed and was sold off to a merchant, the convent where the Sisters used to provide basic medical help was emptied and sold off too, rents went up and generally people’s lives were worse. Even though the dissolution happened three years before my birth, country people hold grudges a long while.’ 

‘When I was six there was a great kerfuffle, as the King had decided to stop over on one of his jaunts up country. A week before he was due, a huge number of wagons arrived, putting up dozens of tents and small pavilions over the lawns including one made of waxed canvas to keep the rain off, then covered over in beautiful golden silk. This was the King’s pavilion. Father told me that the King could not manage stairs any more so none of the bedrooms at Carnell Hall would be suitable for him. Hence the traveling bedroom fitted with every luxury, including a proper bed rather than a straw mattress on the floor which the other tents had. He even had his own thunder-box in there, with a servant especially appointed to wipe his bum and empty out the bucket every time It was used.’ 

Alison grimaced’ ‘Ugh - what a horrible job. How do you know the word ‘kerfuffle’, by the way?’ 

‘I’m good at picking up slang’ Humphrey replied. ‘TV is great – you'd be surprised at the additions to my vocabulary from watching stand-up comedy. Eastenders is great too with the rhyming slang, me ol’ china! Get aht of mah pub!’. 

‘Hmm. I think I might have to keep a closer eye on what you are watching …' 

Anyway, back to the Royal Arse Wiper …' Humphrey hurried on, in case he said too much and had his telly privileges removed. 

‘Yuck’ Alison said with a shudder. 

‘The Master of the Stool he was called ….’ Humphrey mused. ‘I’ve never been sure whether ‘stool’ referred to the thunder-box itself or its contents. As a six-year-old I found it all hilarious. The worst job in the world. Anyway, more wagons arrived four days later filled with every kind of foodstuff you could imagine – duck, goose, caper and swan for a start. Casks and barrels of strong beers, ales and wines. There were also pots and pans galore and dozens of cooks, kitchen maids and other staff setting up a field kitchen on the lawn. Mum said we’d be eating the leftovers for a week, but they took them all away with them – presumably for sandwiches on the next leg of their journey.’ 

‘Finally, the big day arrived and the King arrived with about thirty attendants including courtiers, musicians, pretty ladies, pretty boys – something for all tastes, if you get my drift …. and three doctors to treat his suppurating leg and other ailments. The King was a disappointment to a small boy. I had imagined hm to be a chivalrous, lordly, handsome creature with a golden crown. Instead, I saw a fat, bloated, bald man with a red face and a permanent scowl who treated his servants as if they were the contents of his thunder-box. He had to be carried around on a chair with poles everywhere as his legs could no longer bear the weight of his body. My father called me over to make a courtly bow, and as I bowed down before his chair, my nose was assailed by the most obnoxious stench – as of rotten meat – coming from the blood and pus-stained bandages around his calves. His legs were quite literally rotting away.’ 

‘Can we talk about something else, please – I feel sick!’ exclaimed Alison, pressing a hand to her mouth. 

‘I feel sick at the memory too – and that isn’t easy when you are detached from your stomach!’ Humphrey rejoined. ‘Things got worse. Within a day both privies adjoining the house were full to overflowing, and the gong-farmer's wagon was making two-hourly visits to try and stem the tide. We had more than fifty people availing themselves of two privies after all. The stench permeated the house throughout and was disgusting, and everyone’s shoes were caked in it and treading it throughout the house.’ 

‘No more, no more please’ groaned Alison. ‘Where was this privy? I want the ground dug out and concreted over!’ 

‘Already done decades ago. You know the little paved area by the back door? It was there. A sort of wooden lean-to with two holes over a box, divided with a wooden screen. The gong-farmer would usually come twice a week to unbolt the box and shovel it all into his cart. It was never a pleasant place despite the bunches of lavender, but during the Royal Visit, with that much poo and wee going in there it was awful. Mother was having a fit and said we would all catch fever. I wonder which is the worst job? Wiping the Royal backside or shovelling other people’s shit all day long?’ 

‘Please can we move on now!’ Alison asked again. 

‘Sorry! Anyway,’ Humphrey continued, ‘The old King died two years later, and his sickly boy Edward came to the throne. He was even more of a fanatical Protestant than his dad had been, and my father was a favourite due to his assistance in relieving the Papists of their money and power. His influence grew at Court, and more money filled the family coffers. Local tenant farmers who had paid their rents to Henry in the past had their lands gifted to my father, until he basically owned the village and all the lands surrounding. This made us more unpopular than ever.’ 

‘King Edward was frail and often confined to bed, so my father didn’t think he would last long. My father wanted to consolidate his position at court but wasn’t sure which way to jump. He heard of plans to put Jane Grey on the throne if Edward died, but believed that her claim to the throne was tenuous and that Edward’s sister Mary would almost certainly prevail. This would be a big problem for Dad, as Mary was a Catholic, and he had spent half his working life asset-stripping the Catholic church. He made a decision that would ultimately lead to my death. In an attempt to appease a future Queen Mary, he selected me a French Catholic bride.’ 

‘But you were a child.’ Alison exclaimed. 

‘I was fourteen, and that was the age that a man could legally marry. My bride, Clothilde, was only twelve but English law dictated that she could not consummate the marriage or live in my house until she turned fourteen too, so she remained in France. Father insisted I wear a blue ribbon tied on my arm to let the maidens and their mums know that I was married and unavailable. To display a blue ribbon was a sign that you were no longer free for courtship.’ 

‘So, my Dad had bought himself two years to let the heat die down after Edward’s death, then planned to reappear at Court with his French Catholic daughter-in-law on his arm. We were married by proxy with the English ambassador standing in my place, so I had no idea at all what she looked like or whether we suited. My father said not to worry what she looked like as she was his ‘insurance’, and anyway he wanted to keep the marriage quiet until Mary was safely on the throne as Edward still clung to life. In fact, Edward died about three weeks after my marriage. Dad slunk away from Court before Mary’s coronation and we lived quietly, collecting in our rents and keeping a low profile.’ 

Two years later, in 1555, fourteen-year-old Clothilde arrived. She was not a great beauty, but had a nice smile – on the very rare occasion I saw it. She was a staunch Catholic and was wounded to the depths of her soul to have been married off to a Protestant. She was a tiny little thing – well under five foot tall, while I stood just under two yards high. She arrived with two maidservants and one companion. All three refused to speak one word of English, and my French was non-existent so they didn’t fit in very well in my household. 

Dinner times were purgatory. Long silences broken with the scraping of knives on platters accompanied by my feeble jokes and food-juggling tricks to try and lighten the mood, and unsmiling Clothilde jabbering in an undertone to her companion in French. It seemed to be largely mockery at my expense as I caught the word ‘idiote’ which was close enough to the English version to be hurtful, and it was clear she could barely tolerate me. Nonetheless, as was expected in those days, she performed her wifely duties, if you get my meaning, and over the next five years we had two daughters – Catherine and Sarah, and a son, William.’ 

‘Three years into our life together, there was a cataclysmic change in England. Queen Mary died in 1558 when I was nineteen and the country swung to the Church of England again under Elizabeth. My father died about this time too, and all his burdens fell onto my shoulders, and I was only nineteen at the time with two girls to look after, and Clothilde intent on providing me with a male heir as soon as possible. A male child would be her last child, you see. Having finally provided me with a male heir, Clothilde need never visit my chamber at night again.’ 

‘We had such a mixed history with the villagers. In the past, our family stripped away the support from the convent and priests, then became owners of all we surveyed, then the son and heir - and now head-of-the-household - was married to a Catholic who seemed hateful and stand-offish, and who would not exchange a syllable with them or even worship in the same church as them. Those of the village who had grudgingly re-embraced Catholicism under duress during Mary’s brief reign had gratefully thrown it off again, but the whispers continued that I had recanted and was secretly Catholic myself.’ 

‘We kept our heads down and lived as quietly as we could for the next twenty years. I dutifully attended church every Sunday, my children were baptised there and my eldest daughter married there, but my wife’s refusal to willingly embrace the protestant faith was more apparent than ever, and put us all in danger. I reduced the rents for most of my tenant farmers to make amends with them and gave generously to the poor, but still the whispers of ‘papist’ followed me everywhere I went. Our house was spied on, and it was reported that every Sunday a man would come to our house carrying a basket of eggs despite the fact that we had hens of our own. My wife and her companion, Jeanne, would mysteriously absent themselves, and later the egg-man would leave the house again. I am not stupid and guessed he was a Catholic priest, but said nothing to avoid incriminating us all, and gave out the word that the egg-man guaranteed all his eggs had twin yolks, and Clothilde was partial to them. Disgusting rumours also circulated that he was her lover despite the fact he was in his sixties and ugly as sin.’ 

‘Look, I’m making it sound like a living hell,’ he said after a short pause to gather his thoughts, ‘but life wasn't all bad with Clothilde. After thirty odd years of marriage and three children, we reached an accommodation even if it was not love as such. We were comfortable with each other. Clothilde was a skilled musician, playing the spinet beautifully. My daughters both played the lute and my son the fiddle, while I enjoyed singing and was thought to have a fine voice. My son was also excellent at dramatic readings and had a ready wit and would often deviise comic skits with his sisters to entertain us all.’ 

‘You do have a lovely voice’ Alison smiled ‘I heard your voice during ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ at Christmas. You all have lovely voices. Pat should start a proper singing club – more like a choir – and I’ll play piano for you. How did you know that carol, by the way? It is mid-Victorian, written by Christina Rosetti so was composed way after your time.’ 

‘It was a favourite in the Button household’ Humphrey answered. ‘Fanny brought the sheet music here as a young bride and it was sung around the piano several times every Christmas. Even the poor wretches in the cellar got to learn the words and enjoyed joining in. It had been many years since we had heard it, so it brought back fond memories for us all.’ Alison smiled and nodded. ‘I love that carol too.’ she added. 

‘Anyway, back to my horrible history – I'm not boring you, am I?’ Humphrey enquired. 

‘No - please go on.’ Alison urged. ‘It’s enthralling.’ 

‘I grew more and more fearful with each passing year. The countryside virtually seethed with reports of plots to overthrow the Queen and put her Catholic cousin Mary in her place. There were reports of suspected papists being put to death by mobs. People were openly accusing us now of being a nest of Papists, and the local Magistrate, Jeremiah Higham sent armed soldiers to the house on most Sundays to search for the priest. They never seemed to find him though. One Sunday while in the garden taking the air, I heard the clatter of hooves and knew they were back again. I hurried indoors to warn Clothilde, in time to see her bundle the egg-man into the cupboard by the front door. When the men began their oh-too-familiar search, they opened the cupboard door and miraculously the man had vanished. I didn’t even know that the priest hole was there. Clothilde must have arranged for it to be constructed during the renovations of the entrance hall.’ 

‘Is it still there?’ Alison asked, intrigued. ‘Where was it?’ 

‘It is the cupboard near the front door, where you store the black rubbish sacks. I think the back is sealed now so you can’t get through to the stairs behind that go down to the cellar.’ 

‘I’ll explore that tomorrow’ Alison promised. 

‘Anyway, one day in 1586 we were invaded again, but it was far, far more serious this time. A massive mob of soldiers and angry locals advanced along the drive, headed by Magstrate Higham who had a paper in his hand – an order for summary execution. He informed me that a plot had been revealed to assassinate the Queen, and that the chief plotter, Babington, had disclosed my name under torture. I had never met the man, but knew that my father had dealings with the Babingtons – they owed him a great deal of money and had signed a legal bond to repay it after twenty years, and it was now almost due for repayment. I suppose having the claimant executed is one way of not passing the debt onto those Babingtons he left behind.’ 

‘Despite my protestations of innocence, the Magistate brandished the death warrant and spoke of his intention to carry it out immediately as we were traitors. His men were ransacking the house, stealing anything of value, and searching for Clothilde and Jeanne, but with no success. I gave thanks that my children were all grown and moved away, making new lives for themselves untainted by the Carnell name.’ 

‘A barrel was rolled out of the buttery, and I was seized by rough hands. While Higham watched and did nothing to stop them, I was forced over the barrel, my hands and feet held tightly so I could not move. The village blacksmith approached with a freshly sharpened axe, and I knew my life would soon be over. With one hand he held down the ruff at the back of my neck, while the other raised the axe. 

I felt no pain at the blow, but was surprised to open my eyes again to find myself lying on the floor. Someone seemly put their hand through my head – an indescribably unpleasant feeling – and I could see him impaling something onto a sharpened stick, crying ‘Death to the Traitor!’ This seemed most strange as it seemed to me that my head was still lying on the path. Worse was to follow, as I watched while the mob hurriedly ripped off the fine clothing from my body before it could be stained by the fountain of blood issuing from my neck. Such fine clothes would fetch a pretty penny at the rag market providing they kept the blood away from them. The old woman who ran the rag market was screeching that I should have been stripped before execution to prevent ruining the clothes. My headless corpse was heaped with more indignities – spat on, stamped on, pissed on, pitchforked - before it was slung onto a cart and presumably taken away to the village green, where the gibbet was located. My head was borne aloft as a trophy and led the cart procession. Some people were clearly drunk, and others were singing, delighted with their day’s work. Strangely I could still see my headless body, fully clothed, lying on the ground before it pushed itself up into a sitting position. 

‘I thought I was going mad or in a horrid dream, and was truly frightened when a voice nearby spoke to me ‘You dead now. Come with me.’ A shaggy man wearing skins picked up my head, tucked it under his arm and grabbed the hand of my unfortunate body, taking me into the house. Men were still roving the rooms but my new friend said ‘No worry - they not see us.’ The rag woman walked past with my bed-curtains under her arm, but they were taken off her by Higham, who also ordered the looting to stop as ‘this is MY house now’.’ 

‘I guessed that Clothilde and Jeanne had used the priest hole to escape. I think it led to the cellars and then out to the garden via some loose wooden paneling in the old disused privy. So, that’s my story. Not nice, is it?’ 

‘It is horrible, brutal and quite sad.’ Alison agreed. ‘How do you want me to help you?’ 

‘I know it is a long shot, but can you find out what happened to Clothilde and Jeanne? I think they had Catholic friends somewhere locally who might have helped them escape to France. Higham had a report from one of his spies of a small boat of Catholic refugees setting off across the channel at night from Dover a week or so after they fled. Also, my children – my daughter Catherine changed her name by marriage to Thoresby and lived in Lincoln, Sarah became a lady companion to a wealthy widow in Highgate, Arabella Marsh, who while not a Catholic had sympathies for those oppressed for their beliefs. She had corresponded with Clothilde for many years. I believe she offered Sarah the use of her surname, and claimed to the world that Sarah was a distant cousin. My son William left his home in anger the year before I died, telling me his life was intolerable here and that he would be adopting a new surname to make his way in the world, probably by treading the boards so I was not to look for him.’ Humphrey looked unbelievably sad for a moment before sighing heavily and looking up with his usual smile. 

‘Poor Alison! I have bored you for hours and I feel I am giving you an impossible task with so little to go on, but can you help?’ 

‘It’s going to be tough’ Alison admitted ‘So many church records were destroyed when the country see-sawed between religions, but I might be able to find out something about Magistrate Jeremiah Higham and take it back in time from there. A lot of online stuff, and trawling through old records, but I’m up to the task!’ 

Alison paused, and looked Humphrey in the eye. ‘As I said to Thomas, I can promise nothing, but I will try my best for you, even though it might not be as quick a fix as Thomas’s was, and I might not be able to restore any of your past possessions. We are going further back in time, and turbulent times at that. Unless William became a great star of the Elizabethan stage, he will be very hard to trace, especially if he had a new surname, but I promise I will try my best for you.’ 

‘Bless you!’ said Humphrey ‘If I could, I would give you a big, smacking kiss.’ 

Alison paused. The idea of a big smacking kiss from a disembodied head was rather unnerving, no matter how fond she was of Humphrey....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of references from English folk songs here. The foods for the feast are lines from the Symondsbury Mummers Play song and the line about the blue ribbon is inspired by 'The Trees They Do Grow High - a song about a medieval arranged marriage, but in reverse to Humphrey's - the girl is 'twice twelve' and the boy is 'but fourteen' but the blue ribbons are used to mark his married status - but around his head rather than his arm.
> 
> Difficult bit next - might take a few days, might not!


	4. Of desks, portraits and Humphrey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike is given a difficult task, Thomas attracts a new admirer and Alison has news for Humphrey.

Alison puffed out her cheeks in a sigh. She’d spent a good part of the night lying wide awake in bed, turning over strategies in her mind on how to approach the task before her. 

Okay, she had a healthy interest in history, but this would be really difficult, as unless she struck gold and one of Humphrey's relatives was a Tudor Somebody rather than a Tudor Nobody there would be little to tell him. 

She had brought her laptop to the breakfast table, something she had always tried not to do in case she dropped marmalade toast crumbs or tea into the keyboard, but she felt impelled to make a start. She tried a few random searches based on the names she had jotted down, but they took her nowhere but to the modern-day owners of those names and their Facebook or LinkedIn pages. 

‘You haven’t eaten your breakfast.’ chided a gentle voice. Alison looked up to see that at some point over the last half hour Mary had quietly deposited Humprey’s head onto the table. She had been too wrapped up in her research to notice. Humphrey watched her with tender concern. ‘Your tea and toast must be cold by now. Look, I can’t have you neglecting yourself to try and chase this down for me. I know that there may be nothing to tell me and I accept that. I won’t be disappointed. The only reason I asked is for a chance of reassurance that Clothilde didn’t hang, and my kids were safe. After all this time I know it may be difficult to ascertain this. Whether you find anything or not, I will be eternally grateful for you spending your time on this – and ‘eternal’ in my case could be a pretty long time.’ he finished with a wry smile. 

‘You must have seen many people ‘move on’ Alison began, ‘Get sucked off, you mean!’ Humphrey replied with a saucy leer. 

‘Whatever you want to call it, I was wondering what triggers it? Is it like in the movies, where the bereaved partner finds love again or perhaps an injustice is put right?’ Alison asked. 

‘Like ‘Ghost’, you mean? Humphrey mused, remembering Film Night a few weeks ago. ‘No, it’s not like that at all. If it did happen like that, when Pat had the chance to get a message to Carol and meet the grandson who is also his namesake, he would surely have moved on. When Thomas learned that his father idolised him, he might also have gone.’ 

‘Oh! I hadn’t thought of that!’ Alison gasped, sitting bolt upright. ‘Fulfilling Thomas’s request might have led to me losing him …' 

‘Alison’ Humphrey said seriously ‘Any of us could move in at any time. Annie is a good example. She moved on for no reason and we never knew why. So don’t get too fond, eh? ’ 

‘You shouldn’t all be so lovable – even Julian! So, what is your theory? You must have one.’ Alison asked, nibbling on the soggy cold toast with a grimace before pushing it away. She would make a fresh slice later. 

Humphrey wrinkled his brow, then carefully tilted his head slightly to the side. ‘That’s the nearest you get to a shrug from me.’ he explained. ‘I honestly don’t know. Being held here as some kind of punishment doesn't make sense, otherwise Robin must have done something monumentally awful to be stuck here for millennia. So unless he instigated the Ice Age, which is unlikely, I can’t think of any crime bad enough to fit the punishment. If Mary was a real witch and evil, I’m a Dutchman’s uncle – she was just a ‘wise woman’ who helped people with herb-lore, and for all his military bluster, can you ever imagine Cap hurting a fly? Come to that, what did I ever do to be punished? Any injustices committed were my father’s, but he’s not forced to stay here, eternally, is he?’ 

He sighed. ‘Perhaps something goes wrong with the … process ... of death and a memory of us is left behind that those in a similar state of flux – other ghosts - can sense and interact with, and certain other living people can sense it too.’ 

‘Remind me to tell you about the Stone Tape theory one day.’ Alison remarked ‘You might find it interesting.’ 

Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of an excited Thomas. ‘I saw Mike drive away in the farm van earlier today.’ He began, a huge grin on his face ‘Is he going to fetch it?’ 

‘Yes, he is.’ Alison replied ‘but you won’t be able to have the desk in your room straight away as it needs a helluva lot of work to set it right. It also needs to go in the shed to be fumigated before it comes into the house – we don’t want to add to our woodworm population. There are enough holes in the floorboards as it is.’ 

‘Come on, Uber!’ Humphrey interjected, ‘you can give me a lift to the sitting room. Mike switched on the telly for us before he left, and I want to see what is on the History Channel before Julian keys in another war documentary for The Captain.’ He glanced again at Alison. ‘I’ll leave you in peace but please remember what I said – no overdoing it, hey?’ 

‘What did you call me?’ asked Thomas, as he picked Humphrey up from the table and headed for the door. ‘My name isn’t Uber. I cannot believe it is a name at all – more likely an insult or term of abuse.' Alison was treated to another huge wink from Humphrey and she couldn’t resist a chuckle as they left. Humphrey’s skills at picking up modern idiom and parlance were a constant marvel to her. Whatever century he had been born into, he would have fitted straight in. 

She opened her notebook, studying again the names she had written down there. ‘Robert James Carnell.’ She said aloud. ‘Humphrey’s dad. Date of birth unknown, but at a guess about 1500. Died 1558-ish. As Julie Andrews said ‘a very good place to start.’ 

After signing up and paying the fee to a genealogical research site, she tried her luck. As she thought, the records didn’t go back far enough, and she could only reach 1717. Also, these Carnell's came from Derbyshire, so were probably not the right family. Logging onto the site forum, she typed a request for help. Maybe someone else was searching for Carnells too. After putting up another post asking for help on Arabella and Sarah Marsh of Highgate from the 1570’s and yet another on the Thoresbys of Lincoln. She sat back in her chair thoughtfully. For the moment she decided to put thoughts of William aside, as she didn’t even have a surname to go on and she suspected that lots of ‘Williams’ were leaving home and flocking to London to seek their fortunes in such perilous times. ‘It’s a shame he’s not from Stratford-on-Avon' she thought with a giggle. ‘How much easier that would make it! No, the surname that he picked would be one that is easy for him to remember.’ 

There was nothing else she could do until replies came back from her forum requests, so she turned to drawing up a sketchy family tree for Humphrey based on what she already knew. later she would show it to him in the hope he could fill some of the gaps. 

Mike duly arrived back with the desk in several pieces, and the contents of the drawers in a cardboard box. ‘There were three chairs that fitted the description, all rather damaged. ‘My guess is that they were once part of an old dining room suite’ he explained ‘so I brought all three back. I am sure we can bodge at least one decent chair from the three.’ 

Thomas came racing from the house just as the remains of the desk were being brought out from the van. With a cry of despair, he flung himself prostrate on the grass, weeping ‘Oh, alas! What has happened?’ he wept ‘My beautiful desk …' 

‘I think time and woodworm have done for it, and the joints have all failed. I’m sure we can do something?’ Alison asked, glancing at Mike in entreaty. 

‘Call The Repair Shop?’ Mike enquired. ‘This is a big job.’ 

‘But we’d need a back-story for them to tackle it. I can hardly say I need it restored to please an overwrought ghost, can I? The only person who would get all weepy about the blanket being taken off at the reveal wouldn’t be there, and even if he could be, he certainly wouldn’t be visible to the camera or Jay Blades.’ Alison responded. ‘Did you find the missing foot, by the way?’ 

‘Yep.’ Mike replied. ‘It had got kicked aside when it failed, and when we tried to move the desk, we found it lying behind. Woodworm again. The chairs are not too bad really, as whatever they are made of isn’t as tasty to the bugs and I think we might even end up with two whole chairs out of it. Thomas can check them out and see if he recognises any scuff marks or similar. I think I spotted some spilled ink on the velvet seat of one of them, so that is a hopeful sign, as you wouldn’t have ink in a dining room.’ 

‘I’ll help get these shifted for you’ Alison said as she grabbed a section of desk. Mike looked at the desk mutely, as if deciding where to start. ‘It doesn't need to look pristine, Mike – as long as it serves as a memory for Thomas, that will be fine. It’s not as if he will be able to actually use it. He’ll just sit there occasionally with his memories, and remember he has no actual weight.’ 

Miserable moans came from her left, where Thomas remained face down in his grief and feeling slightly peeved at being ignored. ‘Oh, for goodness's sake, Thomas!’ Alison chided, ‘Mike is wonderful with his hands and he’ll work out how to mend it for you. Please get up from the ground.’ The Captain had wandered outside to supervise the unloading of the van and he looked down at Thomas lying face down on the lawn, his eyes tracking down the length of his back and towards his tightly cut breeches before he cleared his throat loudly. ‘Come on man – get up!’ he said gruffly ‘Don't squirm on the ground like that. You will soil your breeches. With grass stains.’ he hastily added. 

‘No, I won’t’ came the muffled reply. ‘Grass stains won’t stick, as you well know. No stains will.’ 

The Captain's cheeks went a little pink, and tucking his swagger stick under his arm, he cleared his throat again and marched back into the house. All this talk of stains was a little uncomfortable for him. 

‘Hey, I'll try my best to fix it, buddy.’ Mike called in the same direction as Alison. From what of the conversation he had heard, he guessed that Thomas was upset that his desk was broken. ‘Let’s get this lot over to the shed and I’ll see what I can do.’ 

Kirsty arrived midway through Saturday morning to check over the portraits. Alison had left them on the settle so that Thomas could still enjoying seeing them. After Kirsty had erected her easel, Alison placed Thomas’s portrait on it. 

‘We need to get it out of the frame first, then the splits in the frame can be repaired while I work on the canvas. I think the portrait must have been dropped, or fallen from the wall at one stage. There is also quite a lot of worm damage here too.’ 

‘Not more bloody woodworm!’ Alison murmured beneath her breath. 

‘I think the critters have long departed, but the damage they made to the frames remains, and there is some in the stretchers. There is a resin treatment I can use that will fill in the holes and restore the strength to the wood.’ Kirsty added. 

‘Great! We have another ongoing restoration job that will need that stuff too– a gallon of it probably.’ Alison remarked ruefully. ‘I’ll tell Mike.’ 

Kirsty was easing Thomas free from the frame, and stood the painting onto the easel for a closer appraisal. ‘It’s by an unknown hand, but is surprisingly good.’ she said ‘Some of the brushwork is quite fine. I think they will clean up nicely, and you will see this handsome lad in all his glory.’ Alison noticed the ‘handsome lad’ was already present and gazing at Kirsty with the besotted expression that crossed his face every time an attractive female visited the house. ‘Here we go again.’ she thought ruefully. 

‘Tea or coffee?’ She asked brightly, preparing to leave. ‘Ooh - tea please’ asked Kirsty, laying out her tools on the desk. 'and a biccy?’ 

‘Will do. Lunch at about noon?’ Alison asked as she turned to leave the room, and Kirsty hummed in reply, her concentration intent on removing dirt and discoloured varnish from the area around Thomas's painted eye. ‘Look. she said, standing back so that Alison could see the beautiful skin tones around the lustrous brown eye which stared startlingly from the dull portrait. ‘He’ll be fine.’ 

By the time Alison returned with the tea and a plate of hobnobs, the library was crowded. Both of Thomas’s eyes were now revealed, almost as if he was peering through a letter-box, and the family were making appreciative noises. Fanny wondered aloud if Kirsty would clean her portrait too.’ ‘And George’s too, I assume? You must want to see THAT in all its glory again!’ Julian enquired mischievously. Fanny harrumphed in reply. Alison left them to it, as she was keen to visit the genealogy forum to see if anyone else knew about the Carnell, Thoresby or Marsh families. 

Walking back to the kitchen she found Humphrey’s head lying in the hallway, patiently waiting for someone to help him. ‘I’d buy you a whistle, but you’d have to keep it in your mouth all the time!’ she remarked. 

‘I don’t think it would work. I wasn't lucky enough to have a whistle in my mouth as I died, and nothing can be added afterwards.’ he grinned. ‘Others have tried, believe me!’ 

‘William used to have something called a swazzle that you could use to make silly voices.’ he recalled. ‘It was held at the back of the throat. Will scared us all to death one Christmas during his play-acting when the swazzle went back too far in his throat during a comical dance, and he began choking. I ended up putting my fingers down his throat and pulling the swazzle back. He threw up all over me. He could hardly speak for a week and had to live on soup. Now, if I’d had one of those in place as I had died it would still be there, but Higham was in no mood for funny voices at the time of my execution, and neither was I, really. Anyway, you might find it a little tiresome if I squawked at you all the time.’ 

‘Like Sparky’s Magic Piano. Or Mr. Blue Sky.’ Alison replied. 

‘Sorry - you’ve lost me there.’ Humphrey replied. 

‘They are electronically altered voices. I’ll play them to you online when we get to the kitchen. And you can judge for yourself. Now I’ll ask one of the others to take you through. I have drawn up a family tree of sorts for you, and I’d like you to fill in gaps if possible, but that can wait.’ said Alison. ‘Wait here.’ she added, without thinking. 

Humphrey’s shout of laughter followed her as she headed back to the library. 

Popping her head around the door, she asked Kirsty if she needed anything else. Kirsty replied that she was fine, and continued her painstaking work on Thomas’s ear. Kirsty was unaware, but a lively argument was taking place among her audience. 

‘Wow - your ears are really big, aren’t they?’ Pat had said ‘Is that why you wear your hair in that style nowadays, to hide ‘em?’ 

‘They are NOT big!’ Thomas hotly replied, clapping his hands defensively over said ears. ‘And for your information, my hairstyle in that portrait was called the Brutus cut, and was the very height of fashion. Brushed forward at the crown and cut high over the ears. In later life I adopted a more windswept style, as you can see.’ 

‘A proper short back and sides, that is what you need.’ added Cap. ‘Get rid of all those curls.’ Amid the pandemonium Alison jerked her head at Fanny, who looked most affronted. ‘A lady never summons her elders in such a manner’ she grumbled, but nonetheless followed Alison out of the room. Fortunately, Fanny had a soft spot for Humphrey, so carried him to the kitchen table without any further complaint before hurrying back to watch the enthralling work in the library, wondering if she would return to outright fisticuffs. 

Alison spread out the family tree on the kitchen table. ‘My, you’ve been busy’ Humphrey remarked’ 

‘Yes, but there are lots of gaps that might help me to trace your family.’ Alison continued. ‘I have some replies from my forum requests, but I haven’t checked them yet. I wanted the spaces on the family tree filled in just in case they are relevant to the replies.’ 

‘Understood.’ Humphrey replied. ‘what do you need to know?’ 

‘Your mother’s maiden name, when and where she was born for a start.’ 

‘isn't that going in the wrong direction?’ Humphrey asked. ‘I’m trying to trace my descendants, not my ascendants.’ 

‘Humour me!’ Alison replied ‘I have an inkling that one may be the solution to the other, but it might be nothing.’ 

‘Her name was Anne with an ‘e’ and she was one of the Kempe’s of Ashford. Kempe with an ‘e’ too.’ He added helpfully. 

‘Interesting’ said Alison, as she opened her laptop, excitement building but she tried not to show it. ‘Tell me, why did you name your son William, when your father was Robert?’ 

‘After my father had dragooned me into marriage to a CHILD I had never actually met, I felt he did not deserve the honour of passing his name to my son. William was a name that had been used by generations by my mother’s family.’ 

Alison quickly brought up a Wikipedia page. ‘And he was born in 1560? And went to London to take up a career in the theatre? And used to make you laugh with his antics?’ 

‘Yes, yes and yes.’ Humphrey replied ‘Do you have something?’ 

‘Bingo.’ Alison exclaimed. ‘I think I’ve got him! And yes, he did do well. Can I hang onto this information until I’ve finished my other research, or would you really prefer to hear it now?’ 

‘I’m happy to wait.’ Humphrey replied, his eyes shining with happiness. ‘It is enough for now to know that he didn’t end up dead. Well, I know he ended up dead eventually, but hopefully not by any unfortunate association with me!’ 

If you can wait a couple of days, I might even be able to give you something of his.’ Alison continued, opening her Amazon account. 

‘Really?’ Humphrey said with some surprise. ‘I never expected that. I'll sit here quietly while you work, and not interrupt you.’ 

‘I’ve more questions first.’ Alison teased before bombarding him with questions about dates and names. Humphrey was perturbed that he could no longer recall the date of his daughter’s marriage. ‘How could I ever forget that?’ he mused sadly. 

‘Don't worry, Mike and I often forget our anniversary until it is upon us.’ Alison soothed, but Humphrey sill looked unsettled. 

Alison checked the kitchen clock ‘I need to start on lunch in an hour or so, but I’ll work on trying to trace your girls until then. Now, let’s look at these messages.’ 

‘Too late, wrong location, wrong sex.’ she said after reading out the first three messages. Someone has suggested I try local history collections and local archives. I might give that a go but it will be slow work and might involve travelling to Lincoln for the Thoresbys.’ 

Alison bent her head over the laptop, seeking out contacts for what she needed, while Humphrey again checked out the family tree. 

‘Catherine had children you know.’ he murmured. ‘I was a grandad at what would seem to you the scandalously young age of thirty-four as I was just seventeen when she was born. She had two sons, Neville Humphrey Thoresby and Harry William Thoresby. There was another daughter who died at the age of four, Maria Frances Thoresby. I never met any of them. I think Catherine fell pregnant a few more times both before and after Maria, but didn’t carry any more babies to term.’ 

‘Humphrey - I am so sorry.’ Alison said, sitting back to glance sympathetically at him. He sighed. 

‘It was what happened in those days. Some mothers had nine, ten, eleven pregnancies and confinements and no living children to show for it. It was just the way it was.’ 

‘At least you have given me more leads.’ Alison replied. ‘any dates for these births?’ 

‘Not really. We didn’t have phones or Zoom or anything. A messenger was sent with information of the birth, and eventually the piece of paper would reach you, often six months late. Sorry. We all felt it safer for all if Catherine did not visit us, or we visit Lincoln. I think it was one of the reason William went off the rails – he missed his sisters. He often took his melancholy out on the brandy kegs in the cellar and I’d end up scooping up from the floor in a befuddled heap and carrying him off to bed like a babe.’ 

‘Poor lad’ Alison murmured. ‘and poor you too. ‘It’s not good to see someone you love suffer.’ 

‘Agreed. But at least you seem to think he survived and didn’t drink himself to death in a muddy ditch on his way to London.’ 

‘And at least we have your grandson’s names and know which city they lived in. It’s a good start.’ said Alison. 'Better than we were this morning.’ 

She glanced at the clock again. ‘I need to start lunch now. I’ll go into the library to check what Kirsty would like and try to encourage one of the others to come and collect you to watch the portrait restoration. It is fascinating, you know. You can also keep the peace between Pat and Thomas.’ 

‘Hmm. It will make a nice change to be the referee instead of the football!’ he grinned. 

Shortly after Kitty had collected Humphrey and taken him back to the library, Kirsty came to the kitchen for her simple lunch of a cheese, ham and mushroom omelette with a side salad. 

‘You know, that portrait is in pretty good nick considering the neglect.’ she remarked. ‘No tears or holes in the canvas and no flaky paint. I should be able to start cleaning off the girl’s portrait later tonight.’ 

‘Please don’t spend all your time on it. we’re planning a Film Night tonight – it's The Sound of Music!’ 

‘I’d love that.’ Kirsty replied. ‘Can we sing along?’ Then, after a pause she asked ‘Alison - is this house haunted?’ 

‘Why do you ask?’ Alison replied carefully. 

‘All the while I was working, I had a strange feeling of being watched – as if I was not alone. Then I thought I heard a sigh, and at one other time I felt a strange tension in the room.’ 

Oh yeah!’ Alison exclaimed breezily, as if making a big joke ‘We have hordes of ghosts. Let me see. There is one without a head, a burned witch, an Army Captain, a grumpy Edwardian matriarch - ‘ 

‘What about the gorgeous Thomas? Is he here?’ Kirsty interrupted ‘I’d love to be haunted by him. Even if rather too young for me according to that portrait. It must be gazing into those eyes for half the day. I’m half besotted.’ 

‘Not too young any more - and he’s just your type …' Alison thought to herself, but said nothing. 

‘What are you researching?’ Kirsty asked. 

‘I am looking into the family histories of the people who once lived in this house.’ 

‘Ah! Your ghosts!’ Kirsty grinned. 

‘Yep - them!’ Alison said, keeping up the joke. ‘This one is a Tudor guy so there isn’t a lot to go on. It’s hard work but I’ve got a couple of promising leads.’ 

‘Right - so it’s nose to the grindstone time again for both of us!’ said Kirsty. ‘Thanks for lunch. Should I introduce myself to your ghosts when I get back?’ 

‘No, but a running commentary on what you are doing would be popular.’ Alison said jokingly. 

‘They’ll get that anyway as I have a shocking habit of muttering to myself while working. Go on - any names to give a call out to, apart from dishy Thomas?’ 

‘Humphrey, Mary, Pat, Kitty, Captain, Robin, Fanny - ‘ 

‘Hang on! I’m not calling out ‘hello Fanny’ - it might be misconstrued!’ 

‘No need to call anything, there really is no one there.’ Alison replied speedily. 

‘Okay. I’ll believe you but thousands wouldn’t. I assume those are the names of all the people you plan to research, not real ghosts?’ Alison nodded cheerily as Kisty headed back to the library. Alison heard her open the door and call loudly ‘Hello Thomas, you gorgeous creature!’ She smiled as she imagined Thomas’s ecstatic reaction. 

By checking the county records, she was able to ascertain that Neville Thoresby had been a travelling magistrate and presided over several witch trials, while his younger brother Harry – or Henry according to the records – had become a humble curate. She’d have to carefully gauge Mary’s reaction to Neville’s choice of career as it might not go down well. 

Alison felt she was onto the home straight. She would try to find out what had happened to Sarah and try to track whether Clothilde had made it back to France tomorrow. For now, she closed her search down on the laptop, taking it through to the sitting room as she would need it to stream The Sound of Music later on. For now, she was burning to see how the portrait was progressing. 

She walked in to a rapt audience. Kirsty had almost finished. In the portrait, Thomas sat in a library at a desk with a quill pen in his hand as if preparing to write on the sheet before him, and was smiling as he looked directly at the artist. Behind him a gothic window showed a sunny lawn with a formal garden bounded by a high wall with an ornamental gate. Alison’s heart sank. This was clearly not the view outside of the present room, so her fib was bound to be exposed. 

’It is the library at my own home.’ Thomas murmured, and Alison seized gratefully on his words. 'It's the library at his former home.’ She gabbled. ‘He moved here not long after this was painted.’ Thomas shot her a reproachful glance. He had hardly ‘moved’ here of his own choice. ‘Sorry.’ she whispered. 

‘Why are you sorry?’ Kirsty asked. Alison gave up. ‘Okay - you were right. There ARE ghosts here, and I see them and talk to them. they are my family now. Thomas didn’t live here – he died here in a duel.’ 

You’re kidding me?’ asked Kirsty, half inclined to laugh. 

‘No, I’m not.’ Alison continued, pointing her finger to each in turn. ‘Over there is Lady Frances Button – Fanny – and beside her are Kitty, a Georgian lady and Mary, who died in the witch trials.’ Mary made a strangled noise of distress. ‘Sorry, Mary.’ Alison said. Over there next to Thomas is a World War 2 army captain, and next to him a nineties MP with no trousers. and over there a scoutmaster with an arrow through his neck. A caveman is next to the fireplace, and Humphrey’s head is on the desk over there.’ 

‘Hello!’ piped up Humphrey. ‘It would have been nicer to be complete if I’m to be introduced to the young lady, but the lower half of me is currently missing …' 

‘Like Julian’s suit!’ Pat added with a grin. ‘It might have been better if he’d been reunited with his pants before being introduced to the young lady as well …' 

‘Humphrey is the Tudor guy I am currently researching. He was beheaded by an angry mob outside this very house.’ Alison continued. 

‘O-kay.’ said Kirsty, looking rater concerned. ‘Look, can you prove a word of all this is true?’ 

‘Yes, I can!’ Alison replied hotly. ‘Julian …' 

‘Why did I guess it would be me?’ he grumbled. 

‘Because you can push things.’ Alison added. ‘Push something.’ With a sigh of annoyance, Julian walked over to the desk, and shoved over a pile of papers. ‘Not those – they are the bills... they were in order of worrying-ness.’ Alison whined. ‘Push something else. Push Kirsty.’ 

‘No can do,’ Julian smirked. ‘I can’t push people.’ 

‘That’s not what I heard.’ Alison grated as she picked up the scattered bills from the floor. ‘Just do it.’ 

With a sigh, Julian lay his hands flat against Kirsty’s back, gathered up his strength and gave a huge push. Kirsty stumbled forward. ‘How did you do that? It must be a trick.' 

‘No - it was Julian, the man with no pants - ‘Alison caught Julian’s eye, ‘and a double first from Cambridge.’ 

‘Are these people harmful?’ asked Kirsty a little fearfully and glancing around ‘Am I in danger?’ 

‘No, not at all.’ Alison explained. Julian is the only one who can touch. Mary can leave a smell of burning and Robin can howl to make dogs go crazy. There is a plague girl in the cellar who can be heard, but she only sings nursery rhymes. If the others have gifts, I am still to learn of them – apart from the gifts of their splendid company and friendship, of course.’ Alison finished, with a wide smile around the room. 

‘Well, I think you are very lucky.’ said Kirsty. ‘Am I right in guessing that Film Night is for their benefit as much as ours's?’ 

‘Yep. For them it is part of the perks for having me and Mike cluttering uo their home.’ Talking of Film Night, shall we all go through?’ 

‘What are we watching tonight?’ asked Julian ‘Fifty Shades? Last Tango? The Unbearable Lightness of Bonking?’ 

‘The Sound of Music’ Alison replied. 

‘Oh no – it's a granny film. Definitely NOT one of my favourite things …' he grumbled. Alison gestured them all out of the room. ‘They feel sick if we walk through them’ she explained to Kirsty ‘so I always let them go out first.’ 

‘Right’ You’ll have to tell me where to sit – I don’t want to sit on anyone - especially the guy with no pants!’ 

‘Hmm. I think he’d enjoy that.’ Alison murmured wryly as she led the way to the sitting room. 

Kirsty ended up staying for four days and quickly became accustomed to the ghosts. She soon knew all their names, and whenever Kirsty ventured into the library, Kirsty would ask who else was there, and hold a conversation with them via Alison. ‘I wish I could see them.’ she sighed. ‘Or even paint them. You’ll have to try and get some photos of the more recent ones for me.’ 

‘I can show you a photograph of Fanny, and if you look online for Julian Fawcett MP, you’ll find his photo and how he died. I think there was a local press report of Pat’s accident – it was 27th October 1984, but it was SUCH a tragedy I've avoided it, as I think I'd get upset, as Pat is a dear friend now. The Captain won’t even tell us his name, so we won't get anything there. It’s very odd that he gives so little away. Sometimes I wonder if he was some sort of post-war spy....’ 

‘I can see you've got a lot to keep you busy there!’ Kirsty chuckled 

Once Kirsty was gone, everyone missed her, but there was another little bit of excitement to come. Alison had finished her research and had pushed Humphrey’s family history as far as she felt she could. She asked him whether he would like her to tell everyone tonight, or would he rather hear privately first? 

‘No - I’m happy to hear it all the same time as everyone else.’ he replied. ‘I’ve nothing to hide after all.’ 

Once again Alison gathered them all in the library, with her laptop turned to face them, but the screen was blank. 

She reiterated Humphrey’s story, while the others nodded politely. they all knew this already and hoped to hear something new. They had all been inspired by Alison's success with Thomas, and longed to hear more of the same. 

‘Humphrey came to me with a simple request. 'she began. ‘He was not interested in what had happened to his body, but the effects his death had on his wife, children and grandchildren.’ 

‘As you can imagine, this was difficult. Church records were lost or destroyed, there were no newspapers as such, and a lot of court documents were in Latin. Nevertheless, I have tried my best, and have achieved what I consider a reasonable success.’ There were pleased smiles all around the room, all directed towards Humphrey. For this occasions, Kitty and Fanny had guided Humphrey’s body to sit between them on the settee. The Captain had placed Humphrey’s head on top of his shoulders so that he was complete again. Everyone knew that Humphrey could remain in one piece for about fifteen minutes with willpower and concentration but usually after that his head would topple. For this reason, The Captain stood behind the sofa, his hands resting at the nape of Humphrey’s neck while his thumbs supported his skull. The Captain was privately thrilling at the feel of Humphrey’s crisp curls against his fingers, as he so often longed for touch. ‘I’ve got you, old chap’ he murmured, while his thumbs moved in gentle circles in what he hoped was a soothing motion. Humphrey shivered under his touch. ‘Cap,’ he said quietly ‘you’re making it bloody hard to concentrate, and at this rate I’ll come undone – quite literally. It feels wonderful, by the way.’ 

’My first searches for Humphrey’s children did not go too well. Alison continued. ‘Dead ends all the way. I decided to try and draw up some sort of family tree, and tie it up with the historical timelines we had – the coronations of various monarchs and Humphrey’s age and memories at the time. Then Humprey recalled that he hadn’t informed me of the existence of his grandchildren, Neville Thoresby, born when Humphrey’s daughter was twenty, and his brother Henry, one year younger. With their full names and place of birth, it opened the way for me.’ 

‘By searching records, I discovered that Henry was listed as the curate of a small parish church in Sleaford in 1621, when he would have been about forty. He seems to have been unmarried, so his line ended there.’ 

‘A search for Neville Thoresby proved far more interesting.’ Alison glanced at Mary, ‘Mary, you might like to not listen to this bit, as you may find it upsetting.’ 

‘No, I’ll stay.’ Mary said in a small voice. ‘I think I can guess what youse going to say. He was involved in the witch trials, wasn't he?’ 

‘Yes,’ Alison said. ‘He was a travelling magistrate covering the areas around Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire. Local parish clerks and even clergy would ask for him to hold a court of assizes in their villages to try the poor wretches they had rounded up. When eventually Neville and his court officials would arrive inevitably all those accused would be found guilty and killed by hanging, drowning or stoning. There wasn't any burning at the stake in England, apparently. I am sorry you have had to hear this, Mary, having gone through this yourself.’ Mary threw her apron over her head to hide her face while her tears fell. Pat put a comforting arm around her, nestling her head onto his shoulder and ignoring the soot smuts that settled on his uniform. As Thomas had said earlier, stains won’t stick. 

‘Now I turned to Humprey’s other daughter – Sarah. We know that she became the companion of a lady in Highgate, which at the time was a well-to-do village on the outskirts of London. Her employer was Arabella Marsh. I discovered that Arabella was sister-in-law to a very wealthy man – Sir Roger Cholmely, who had founded Highgate school in 1565. Her brother had been married to Sir Roger’s sister, and Arabella was widowed not long after her marriage when her husband died of smallpox. Sir Roger built her a house in the grounds of the school where she spent her time in many and varied correspondence with those she felt ‘oppressed’ - especially Catholics living a quiet life and trying to stay under the radar. She organised many escapes to the continent, but sadly not Clothilde’s.’ 

‘She had probably corresponded with Clothilde for years, and when she heard how frightened she was for the safety of her daughters, she offered to give Sarah a new identity. To the world her companion was Sarah Marsh, a spinster and distant relative. Sarah never married or had any children, just living happily with Arabella, until Arabella died nearly thirty years later. Her house was given to Sarah, who lived out the rest of her days there alone.’ 

‘Before we move on to Humphrey’s son, William, I’ll talk of Clothilde.’ Alison continued. ‘Humphrey love, I’m sorry but I could find nothing new for you. I found the report sent to Magistrate Higham that a boat-load of Catholic refugees were seen slipping out from Dover under cover of darkness, and the assumption was that Clothilde, Jeanne and her friends the Chevalier de Montreuil and his wife Louise had made it across the channel successfully. So at least she was not alone, Humphrey. No doubt she went back to her family home’. 

‘Thank you.’ He replied. ‘That means the world to me. It was a strange marriage but I think we grew fond of each other over the years – not love as such, but she meant a lot to me.’ 

‘Now onto the exciting bit.’ Alison said, with a grin. ‘and at last, a chance to use the laptop. Humphrey’s son William, born in 1560. He stormed out of the house at the age of 23, intent on finding his fortune on the London stage. He declared that he would be taking a new surname. Now, I guessed that this would have to be a name he would remember easily. So on a long chance, I asked Humphrey for his mother’s maiden name. And I found him!’ 

She displayed the Wikipedia page for Will Kempe. 

‘William Kempe was an actor, a comic dancer, and eventually became a shareholder in The Lord Chamberlain's Men, along with Richard Burbage and William Shakespeare. It is likely that quite a few of Shakespeare’s comic roles were written for William Kempe. 

‘He danced from London to Norwich, 110 miles, in nine days – the original Nine day’s Wonder. He wrote an account of his journey,’ Alison flourished a thin book,’ and I have a copy for you. She pointed at a woodcut image on the cover of the book. ‘I’ve also ordered you a copy of this print, which we can frame up for you. You don’t have a bedroom as such, but can choose where you would like it to go.’ 

‘Halfway up the stairs.’ He replied. ‘That seems to be where I end up most of the time, and preferably at ground level!’ 

‘There is a final little treat, he had a dance tune named after him …. ‘ 

‘I know! I know!’ Thomas called out, holding up his hand as if he were in class ‘Kemp’s Jig. I remember it was a popular dance even in my day.’ 

‘I know Kemp’s Jig too, and remember all the steps. If only we could hear it, Thomas.’ Kitty replied. 

‘Follow me’ said Alison, leading them to the sitting room where she already had some sheet music on the piano. 

‘Madam, will you do me the honour?’ asked Thomas, with his best courtly bow. Kitty swished her skirts in a curtsy, then took both his hands and began the dance. As Alison played the tune, she knew why it was so damn familiar. Almost every movie set during Tudor times had used this damn tune. 

‘As you did for Thomas, can you give Humphrey a group hug? Alison asked, ‘Then I’ll play Kemp’s Jig again.’ 

They all gathered around Humphrey, who was surprisingly still intact, and, as the tallest, Cap and Julian carefully linked their arms around the back of his neck to keep him together while Kitty threw her arms around Humphrey’s middle, hugging him close. The rest joined in the hug and began to slowly rotate the huddle as Alison began playing the tune again. It was the nearest Humphrey could get to dancing, and he looked ecstatic. Mike strolled in, drawn by the music. 

‘That’s nice.’ He remarked. 

‘Oh yes, isn’t it?’ Alison replied, her eyes on the rotating group before her as she played. ‘I wish you could see what I see.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is rater long. /there was a lot to get settled.  
> I might put the names of the rest into a hat and draw out who I tackle next.


	5. Mike's Mishap, and In From the Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike has an accident, and Robin wants his story known.

‘It seemed churlish to say no’ Mike began ‘so I said I’d take it off his hands. Besides, I’ve always fancied having a home gym.’ Alison regarded the sad relics cluttering up the driveway. 

‘But it’s hardly that.’ Alison observed.’ It’s a set of ancient barbells that look none too safe to me and a shabby exercise bike. Where are you planning to put them? There is no room in our bedroom.’ 

‘I was thinking of using that old attic room.’ Mike replied, pointing up towards the three dormer windows that jutted out from the roof to his right. ‘Okay, it’ll need some work and the floorboards are dodgy, but at least it would be out of your way.’ 

‘But that’s The Captain’s bedroom!’ Alison exclaimed. ‘I think you will need to ask him first.’ 

‘Why does he need a bedroom?’ Mike asked. ‘He doesn’t sleep, does he?’ 

‘Yes, he does – they all do. They spend anything between four and eight hours resting in a sleeplike state. He’s not going to appreciate you getting all hot and sweaty in his bedroom while he’s trying to sleep.’ 

Mike grinned. ‘From what I’ve gathered from you, that would be no problem at all for him – but I bet it would disturb his sleep though!’ 

‘Mike, you must NEVER make implications like that while he is in earshot.’ Alison said with some urgency. ‘Think about it. Back in his day, such an accusation could lead to his court-martial and even imprisonment. It could ruin his life. The Captain is so closeted he is almost in Narnia and believes he is doing a great job at playing the straight guy. He would be devastated if he thought his cover was blown, and that just wouldn’t be fair, Mike. He’s a good guy. A bit pompous – but a good guy.’ 

‘Surely it’s too late for that? The others must have realised by now.’ Mike murmured quietly, just in case The Captain was listening. 

‘I’m pretty sure Julian has guessed but apart from one or two iffy jokes at Cap’s expense I think he is aware of the situation. A lot of his ‘nasty bastard’ persona is there for public consumption, underneath he is not so bad, and I don’t think he would deliberately upset The Captain. Humphrey discussed Cap’s situation with me once – he was rather sweetly trying to give me a heads-up in case I’d be shocked about it, but it was all no great deal to him as lots of Tudor men had both male and female lovers. As Clothilde chucked him out of the marital bed before he was 25, who knows where he sought comfort himself?’ 

‘Fanny would never permit any discussion of such matters in her presence, which is hardly surprising really. The others seem to either be unaware, or consider it to be Cap’s business which way he swings.’ Alison bent to pick up some of the weights from the barbells. 

‘Oof!’ she exclaimed ‘Far too heavy for me. If you want these in the attic, my love, you are going to spend a lot of time trudging up and down the stairs, but I’ll help with some of the lighter ones later. I’ll let the Captain know he will soon have a roommate.’ 

The Captain frowned a little when he heard of the new plans. ‘Are you sure the room is really suitable?’ he asked. The floor is in a really bad state. It doesn’t affect me as I have no physical weight, but I’d worry if any living person began exercising up there.’ 

‘I’ll tell Mike to tread carefully until we can get it sorted. I’ll put it at the top of the ‘to do’ list.’ Alison replied ‘We can find somewhere to store the gym equipment until we know it is safe. For now, I’m going out to the shed to take a look at the progress on Thomas’s desk. I suspect that is where I’ll find Mike too, as fixing it up has become an obsession with him.’ 

There was no sign of Mike, but Alison took some time to admire the progress on the desk. After a lot of swotting up on YouTube tutorials, Mike had carefully cut away all the damaged wood and spliced in new. Once again, she was thankful that they had used some of the precious income from the three Button House weddings from last summer to fit out this workshop, as it would save them both a fortune in repair bills in the long run. Maybe Mike could even fix the floorboards himself. 

She was startled out of her reverie by Thomas rushing towards her, his face pale and strained. ‘What on earth is wrong?’ she asked, alarmed. 

‘Alison!’ he cried ‘Come quickly. Pat said to call an ambulance. Mike has had an accident.’ 

Mike had carried up the two heaviest weights, and kicked open the door of his future gym. It was not a prepossessing sight. He doubted if any human foot had crossed this threshold for at least sixty years. A pall of thick dust coated everything, and the sparse furniture consisted of a cheap wardrobe and dressing table and a narrow metal-framed bed, still made up with coarse grey blankets and a dust-laden pillowcase on a thin, flat pillow. No doubt this had been a servant’s room back in the day when Button House had servants. He decided to stack the gym stuff in the far corner, and set off across the filthy rug. It only took a split second for him to realise how spongy the floor felt, before his foot went through. Unbalanced by the weights in his hands, he toppled backwards, hitting his head hard on the floor while the weights crashed down unheeded beside him. Blackness flooded across his vision as he succumbed to unconsciousness. 

Before opening his eyes again, he was aware of male voices in the room. Good. Alison must have called an ambulance, and he was getting some help. 

‘I think I can hear a heartbeat – he should be okay.’ said a deep, calming voice. 

‘He needs something under his head as the floor isn’t clean enough for a head wound. It will get infected. ‘added a second male voice, this one lighter, and with a soft Northern accent ‘but in my opinion as a qualified first-aider he really he needs a neck-brace first in case there is a spinal injury.’ 

‘You need to do something!’ an imperious female voice added. ‘He is bleeding all over the Indian rug.’ 

Mike opened his eyes, glancing around fearfully. A military chap with neatly combed greying hair and matching moustache had his head on – or almost in - his chest. A scoutmaster with a kindly but concerned face knelt at his other side, while an Edwardian woman stood watching with her hands folded before her. He knew her face – he had seen her photograph on the back of the pantry door. Lady Button. A horrible suspicion started to form, not improved of the sight of Portrait-Man hurrying into the room, followed by Alison. 

‘Shit - I’m dead.’ Mike mumbled before the blackness swallowed him again. 

‘He needs something to go under his head, but all this is too dirty.’ Pat said urgently. 

‘Yes, he is soiling the Indian rug’ Fanny added. ‘You will never get bloodstains out.’ Without a moment's hesitation Alison whipped off her tee shirt, bundling it up. Thomas gave a startled intake of breath, his eyes widening appreciatively. 

‘Lift his head very carefully.’ Pat advised, ‘and slip the pad beneath. It will help to put pressure on the wound. Slowly and steadily now, in case he has any spinal damage.’ Alison slipped the tee shirt in place under Mike’ head, shocked at the amount of blood there. She then put two fingers against Mike’s neck, reassured to feel a steady pulse there. 

‘You can take your head out of his chest now, Cap’ she said. ‘I’ve got this now, and the ambulance is on its way. Thanks for all your help though. It’s so reassuring to have friends like you. So good in a crisis.’ 

Alison sat back on her heels, arching her back against a slight back-ache. 

‘Cover yourself! Cover yourself’ Fanny screeched shrilly ‘A lady does not flaunt her brassiere and bosoms before gentlemen.’ At the moment Alison was too worried about Mike to care that some long-dead men were getting an eyeful. 

Robin came running up the stairs ‘Nee-nah, nee-nah coming.’ His hearing was more acute than anyone else’s in the household, so she guessed she had about five minutes before it arrived. She made a decision to wash her bloodied hands and grab a clean top before the ambulancemen actually arrived. While she didn’t mind ‘flaunting her brassiere and bosoms’ before long-dead eyes, she wasn't so sure about the paramedics. 

By the time she had run down to the bathroom, then to her bedroom and thrown on a clean tee shirt she could hear the distant siren too. She unlocked the front door and left it open while she returned to Mike. He was still out cold, but his eyelids were fluttering when she flopped down heavily beside him, taking his hand. The floor creaked ominously beneath her and she froze. There was no way that two heavy paramedics could treat Mike here, but what to do? 

At that moment she heard boots on the stairs and carefully wriggled herself backwards towards the door. ‘The entire floor could go at any second. Any suggestions on how to get Mike out, chaps?’ she asked. 

‘Get the ambulance men to pull the rug towards them and that will slide the casualty across to firmer ground. Most of him is on the rug, after all.’ suggested Cap. ‘It looks as if he has lost his shoe through the hole so his foot should be free. I wouldn’t be surprised if that isn’t a broken ankle, though.’ 

Alison explained the flooring problem to the paramedics, and Cap’s plan worked like a charm. With much tugging Mike was dragged into the upstairs hallway, awaking with a yell as his injured ankle was moved. He looked around wildly. ‘They’ve gone.’ he said, slightly mournfully. ‘Alison, I saw them – well, some of them but they have vanished again now. I saw ghosts.’ 

I think you might have concussion, my old son.’ said the cheery paramedic. ‘The only people here are us and your lady wife. We’ll take you in for a CT scan, to have your head wound stitched, your ankle checked over and 24 hours of observation.’ 

‘I’m coming too.’ said Alison. 

‘It might be an idea if you drive your own car, as you’ll have transport to get home again,’ said the paramedic. ‘We won’t be needing blues and twos on the road as this isn’t too serious, so you’ll be able to keep up with us if you follow.’ 

At the local hospital, Mike’s scalp wound just needed a few stitches, his CT scan was clear and his ankle was just badly twisted rather than broken. All in all, he had come off lightly. If the entire floor had given way, he might well have been killed. He still had to wait the 24 hours on the ward, and he insisted that Alison go home rather than sleep in the chair all night. 

‘The hospital will call you if they need you.’ Mike soothed. ‘Anyway, it’s probably best not to leave - them - on their own.’ Alison huffed a little ‘I think they are quite old enough to take care of themselves by now.’ She responded tartly. 

The nurse who was checking Mike’s chart looked up quickly. ‘You haven’t left your kiddies alone at home, have you?’ 

‘No.’ Alison said, thinking quickly to get out of the mess. ‘We have … Great Aunt Fanny, who lives with us. She will take care of them all until I get back.’ She turned back to Mike. ‘If you’re sure you don’t need me, I’ll go. I need to see what has happened to whatever room is underneath that attic and how much mess needs clearing up,’ 

‘Get your kids to help! Mine love dusting with the big fluffy duster.’ smiled the nurse. ‘If only I could.’ thought Alison. Life would be easier with extra willing hands to help, even if only Cap with a big fluffy duster. It was a shame the rest of her strange household couldn’t help. 

The next day, Alison collected Mike from the hospital, and many excited faces watched his return an hour later. Mary screamed in horror as he climbed from the car. ‘Ooh - they be torturing him!’ she cried in horror at seeing the grey plastic ankle boot on his left leg. ‘I know what that is – they pour boiling lead into it to make you confess. The poor man.’ 

Pat and Cap had been giving Humprey his daily balancing lesson, which consisted of Pat holding Humprey’s arm to stop his body from wandering off, while the captain walked behind, his hands ready to steady Humprey’s freshly re-attached head if it rocked or toppled. If he was honest with himself, this was for The Captain’s benefit as much as Humphreys, as he loved the thrill of pleasure he felt every time his hands gently cradled Humprey’s head in place. He was aware that this was fast becoming an obsession for him, but all the while he could disguise his feelings as just helping Humprey to remain whole for longer, then no one would be the wiser. 

For now, the lesson was over, and Cap carried Humphrey’s head over to the window so he could watch Mike’s cumbersome exit from the car. 

‘Don’t worry, Mary’ Pat observed. ‘It’s not torture. I think it is some sort of splint. Made of plastic like a ski boot. Damn clever, that is. Less heavy than plaster and presumably the outer part is re-usable.’ 

Humphrey’s body had made his way to the settee under its own volition, where he had sat himself down quietly. Since the lessons, he had become a lot more docile, and The Captain had decided that the frenzied charging around had been a fright mechanism. More frequent contact with his head was bringing the fear under control. Eventually the Captain hoped there might come a time when he could stand face to face with Humphrey and share the full embrace he longed for. In privacy, of course. 

Mike started a tricky ascent of the staircase to observe the damage to the ceiling of Kitty’s room where his foot had come through and the others all followed, apart from Humprey’s body, which sat at its ease on the settee. Alison was marvelling at the change in his behaviour, when Robin’s head appeared on Humprey’s shoulders, grinning maniacally.’ 

‘Boo!’ Robin exclaimed, delighted with his new trick for scaring Alison as he walked through the sofa and sat down beside Headless Humprey on the settee, chortling with glee. 

‘Don’t bloody do that!’ Alison said ‘You scared me half to death. Isn’t this disrespectful to Humprey, too?’ 

‘He not mind.’ Robin replied. ‘Good sense of fun. Enjoy joke.’ 

‘why didn’t you go up with the others?’ she asked. 

‘Need to ask something.’ he began, before falling silent. Alison waited, her heart sinking at the prospect of any request Robin might make. What could she tell a man who died about 40,000 years ago? Surely there would be nothing left to find for him. 

‘Robin, if you want me to find out what happened to you, I may not be able to find anything.’ she began, wishing she could hold his hand in comfort. 

‘I know what happened. Ice happened. Cold. I freeze.’ 

Alison now understood why Robin gravitated to the hearth every time the fire was lit. Poor soul. 

‘How can I help?’ she asked. 

‘I want to tell story. Of me.’ he replied, jabbing himself in the chest. 

‘Surely everyone knows?’ she asked. You can’t have lived here all this time and not told anyone?’ 

‘I try, but words are slow. People get bored. Walk away. If story never told, if I go to light, I not remembered.’ 

‘So, you want me to listen, and write it all down for you?’ Alison asked. 

‘Yes. Tell others. They listen to you.’ Alison felt immensely sad at Robin's last words. How many times had he tried to speak his thoughts before his audience had wandered off? 

‘Robin, I’d be delighted to tell your story.’ Alison assured him. ‘Shall we make a start tomorrow? I think I’ll have my hands full with Mike and the clean-up today, and finding somewhere else for poor Cap to sleep. I didn’t realise just how horrible his bedroom was. Once the floor is fixed, he can have a makeover. And new furniture. Well, new-to-him furniture at least.’ 

‘Get him bigger bed.’ Robin replied with a cheeky grin. ‘Might soon need it.’ 

Alison walked into the sitting room the next day to find the housemates squabbling about what to watch on TV. Julian wanted to watch Parliament Today, while Kitty, Thomas and Mary were clamouring for CBBC as Horrible Histories was due to start soon, and they all adored it. Pat said he didn’t mind, but would prefer not to watch politics. The Captain sat with Humphrey’s head on his lap clearly in a world of his own, his fingers toying with the bouncy curls under his hands. When asked, he said he didn’t really care what they watched. This was unusual for him, as he usually demanded a war documentary on Yesterday. Fanny wanted to watch some repeats of Bake Off on one of the cookery channels, which caused some mystification to her housemates. 

‘You said that a Lady never cooks, she has servants to do that for her.’ Kitty complained ‘Why do you want to watch a cookery show?’ 

‘Ah - I know.’ Julian smirked. ‘It’s Paul Hollywood, isn’t it? I think Fanny has got the hots for him. She’s always asking to watch Bake Off. Seems she likes a silver fox – watch yourself Captain!’ 

Humprey glanced upwards with a broad grin and a wink, while Cap shot a horrified glance at Fanny. Fanny looked equally upset, stating primly that she did NOT desire a liaison with the Captain, and merely admired Mr Hollywood’s skills as a baker. 

‘Yeah - I saw your face as you watched him kneading those bread rolls into shape using both hands. Phwoooaaar.’ Julian added gleefully, moving his hands in a circular kneading motion. 

‘Guys - guys.’ Alison began, raising her hands over the resulting din. ‘You can watch whatever you like all day today, as I will be busy in the library with Robin. We’d appreciate no interruptions, as we have a lot to get through.’ 

‘What can you possibly do for a savage who died thousands of years ago?’ asked Fanny, still smarting from the Paul Hollywood remarks. 

‘something you all could have done. Listen.’ Alison finished before leaving the room. There was a short guilty silence after she left before the argument started again. 

‘Let’s begin!’ Alison said brightly to Robin, who had perched himself uncomfortably on a straight-backed chair beside the desk. ‘Are you comfortable there? I don’t think I’ll be using the laptop much today, so sit wherever you feel most comfortable.’ 

With a grateful glance, Robin sat cross-legged on the hearthrug. Alison hesitated a moment then sat facing him, also cross-legged on the floor, her notebook resting on her knee. 

‘Sorry for stink.’ Robin mumbled. 

‘What stink?’ Alison asked. ‘I can’t smell anything.’ 

‘Others can. Say I stink and not want to be near me. It is not me, but these.’ he plucked at the skins he was wearing. ‘Pat thinks because they are or-gan-ic they smell. I tried taking them off but they go back onto me. World is not cold any more, ice all gone most of year so I not need skins. Not feel cold any more anyway. Can go naked. I tried to wash in lake, but come out all dry. Water not work for me. Nothing I can do but stink.’ 

‘Probably not a good idea to run around the house naked anyway. Fanny would have a spasm.’ Alison replied. ‘Do you remember the night she had a hissy-fit about Julian sitting on the chaise, as his ‘fundament was in contact with the cushions.’? I seem to recall that he informed her that he hadn’t used his fundament for anything in nigh on thirty years, so he was unlikely to soil the seat.’ 

Robin chortled. ‘Yes, was funny. I am glad you not notice stink.’ 

‘Now, let’s get started.’ Alison began ‘Tell me about your life.’ 

Robin sat awhile, gathering his thoughts. ‘World was cold.’ he began. ‘Sky was light again - we could see Moonah and her brother Sun but he had no warmth so all still covered in ice. Just small clumps of green coming through. Doonka Doonka’s – hares? - came to feed. We would catch and eat. Food was scarce so we did what we had always done – tribe split up into families. Find more food in new place.’ 

We were … ‘Robin paused to count slowly and laboriously using all three knuckles on each finger. ‘Fourteen men, women and younglings. We moved towards the great river as we might catch fish there. First night was very cold. We found cave to sleep in. Big cave with walls of soft white stone. Easy to dig deeper. Women and younglings dig cave deeper while men hunt food.’ 

Robin paused a moment. ‘You might not like this. Times have changed.’ 

‘Go on – I understand.’ said Alison. 

‘Hunt not good, three doonkas – not enough for family. We go back to cave. Back wall of cave had collapsed and a youngling had died. A girl. Her name was Breeze. At least now we had meat for all.’ 

Alison stared at him while his words made sense in her brain. ‘You ate your dead?’ she gasped. ‘I know that for Food Club you said you liked Bum, but thought you meant rump steak...’ 

‘No. Bum is good.’ Robin insisted, pointing towards his own posterior. ‘Is best bit. What else to do? All starve while dead youngling put outside to attract wolf or bear, then all dead? This was how it had always been.’ 

‘So, what happened next?’ Alison asked with a shudder, trying not to think about the poor dead girl. 

‘We lived there for a season but white cave not good. Felt evil, perhaps because of dead girl. Many more die. We walk to reach big river. Part of river that makes a great loop so can see both sides.’ Alison reached across for the laptop and pulled it onto her lap, searching for the EastEnders logo. ‘Like this?’ she asked, pointing. 

‘Yes, like that. Just like that.’ Robin exclaimed. 

‘It’s still there. It’s called the Isle of Dogs.’ Alison explained. 

‘No dogs there.’ Robin added. ‘Few wolves but not a lot for them to kill. Thaw was starting and ground was soft with no grass just mud, so no doonkas came for wolf to eat. Wolf pack move to better land.’ 

‘How many of you were there now?’ Alison asked.’ 

‘Seven.’ Robin replied. ‘Me. My sister Star. Bear and his sister Cloud, three younglings – two girls, one boy. girls Snow and Mist, boy Wolf. Girls named after things in the air, boys after things on ground.’ 

‘But you are Robin – surely that is part of each?’ Asked Alison’ both in the air and on the land?’. Robin grinned. ‘Names not given until old enough to walk then best name chosen. Anyway. me not called Robin then. I was called Bird. I was small when born but grew to move fast. I was best runner - as if I flew.’ 

‘I used to go to river every day for fish, digging holes in ice to drop line. Little piece of yesterday’s fish tied to end. Fish became crafty though and went to deeper water. I had to follow. Ice broke and I fell through. After big struggle I got out., wet and cold.’ 

‘Bear decided that river not good for us, so again we turned away, and moved on. I had never recovered from falling through ice and became weaker. After many, many days Bear and Star made frame to drag me on. We travelled on. Food was scarce as Bear and Wolf hunted alone, and weather was cold again. All were freezing but I was burning hot.’ 

‘Feverish.’ Alison murmured. 

‘Finally, we could move no more, and rested beneath a tree for the night.’ Robin’s eyes strayed to the window as if searching for a tree that had vanished years ago. ‘We huddled for the night. Huddle was good. All share warmth and before I was sick sometimes, we would do it – anyone with anyone. It kept you warm and took your mind off a hungry belly. Made you feel good too.’ 

‘I was lying in the huddle, Star one side and Cloud the other, Bear and the younglings each side. No shelter though – no cave, no hut. Snowflakes started to fall and covered us. I did not care though. I felt warm, sleepy and content. I looked at Moonah and she looked at me, calling me home. I felt better. I sat up and found myself strong enough to stand, but when I looked back, my body was still lying there.’ 

‘Next morning Bear cut up my body for meat. They ate some, then packed the rest of the meat onto the frame and walked away. I tried to follow, but could not. I was alone.’ 

‘Robin, I’m so sorry.’ Alison said. What a terrible end for her friend. To be thought of so little that his corpse became a carcass for chopping into joints. 

‘Many years pass – centuries. Trees grew all around. Sometimes I see people in the woods but I always stayed silent as I was alone with no defence. Soon I knew they could not see me, so I would follow them. Once big, savage men came and burned out the village that was in sight but too far away for me to reach. I heard the screams of the dying, saw the women carried away. Then there were some men …. he paused in thought … I saw them on the funny history show – Rotten Romans - that marched through. They camped under trees. There was a big fight and several were dead. One remained after death, but was afraid when he saw me, and ran away. He lived in the trees for next hundred years or so all alone, then moved on.’ 

‘When village came, there was a small girl who could see me. Elders said she was soft in the head – idiot child. She said her name was Elinor, and pointed to herself. I could not understand her speech, so when she asked my name, I just pointed to tree above where bird sat. She said word for bird was Robin, so I was Robin. She taught me to speak and gave me words. When she was older, sickness came to the village and she was blamed. They killed her. I hoped she would stay after death as she was my friend, but she did not. After she died all villagers caught the sickness and died, so they killed her for nothing.’ 

‘More years passed and another village was built. All was well until more sickness came. These are the people who now live down in cellar. I tried to join them but they seemed scared of me, and again I was alone in the woods.’ 

‘Then house was built. People came and went but none stayed behind so I was still alone. I was interested in house and spent most of my time indoors. Nobody knew I was there. Then I saw Humphrey killed, and after his head fell, I knew he was like me, so I saved him and had a friend again. You know all from there.’ 

Alison put down her pen, and looked Robin in the eye. ‘How do you want me to go with this?’ she asked.’ Join it up into a narrative and call everyone in to hear it? You must realise that some parts of your story will be –distressing – especially the cannibalism.’ 

‘What is canna… cannib...’ asked Robin. 

‘Cannabalism. Eating other people.’ Alison explained. ‘It will be difficult for the others to hear – especially Fanny – and she might be judgmental and even cruel.’ 

Robin shrugged. ‘Fanny not like me anyway so how can it be worse?’ It is important to me that my story is known. I might be the last of my kind.’ 

‘Okay.’ Alison agreed. ‘I’ll get this all typed up and see what I can do. I’ll read you what I have before I unleash it on the others, so you can have me take out anything that is wrong or you do not like. I’ll also prepare them all that they might learn things they rather wouldn’t, and ask for understanding.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard one to write, and I feel it is a little below par, but there isn't a lot to go on! 
> 
> Robin's family started off on the North Downs, probably around Kit's Coty House near Aylesford - I used to be able to see that from my kitchen window. From there to Chislehurst Caves, then on to the banks of the Thames opposite the Isle of Dogs. Their final journey was back towards Guildford and Button House. Robin's death-tree is long gone, but is possibly near to Thomas's.


	6. The Consequences of Speaking Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin regrets talking to Alison and reaches a low point.  
> Hollywood Wars break out in the sitting room.

After Robin had left, Alison read through her notes, nibbling on her lip in thought. 

These revelations could cause irreparable harm to her little family, as she guessed there could be far-reaching consequences – cannibalism carried a definite ick factor. 

She had a feeling that her shock and disquiet at what she had heard was apparent when Robin left, as his usual bounce was absent, and instead of joining the others in the sitting room, he had sidled out of the front door and headed off towards the lake, almost at a run. 

Mike popped his head around the door. ‘Okay to come in? He asked, then ‘Oh no, what’s wrong?’ as he saw her worried face. 

Wordlessly, she handed her scribbled notes over to Mike, who read through them, his mouth dropping open. ‘A lot of this stuff is taboo, you know, and could be thought offensive. What are you going to do?’ 

‘I really don’t know.’ Alison replied, desperation in her voice. ‘I promised to write it up for him, but Mike, I am seriously worried about telling the others. What if they reject him - ostracize him, or even turn him out of the house?’ 

Mike sighed, was silent awhile then added ‘I don’t want to add to your worries, but I might need to go back to the hospital. Something isn’t right.’ 

‘What’s wrong?’ Alison gasped. ‘Is it your head?’ 

‘Visual disturbances. Strange noises in my ears.’ Mike replied. I was in the sitting room just now and could swear there was movement on the periphery of my vison. You know when you look at the Pleiades and if you look at them directly, they disappear?’ Alison nodded. ‘It’s like that. I can sense movement and colours off to one side, but when I try to look at it, there is no one there. I’m worried that it is some kind of pressure on my optic nerve. It’s making me feel dizzy too’ 

‘Sounds like a migraine.’ Alison observed. ‘An ex-boyfriend used to get them. And the sounds?’ 

‘High pitched shrilling noise, and a general bass rumble.’ Mike replied. 

‘Okay - it doesn’t sound good. I’ll drive you back to A & E straight away.’ Alison replied. ‘I’ll just go along to the sitting room and let the others know what is going on. It has been World War Three in there all day – the Hollywood Wars.’ 

‘Is it about a choice of movie for Film Night?’ Mike asked. ‘I’ll pick if you like?’ 

‘No - not Hollywood Los Angeles – Paul Hollywood from Bake Off.’ Alison replied with a frustrated tone in her voice. ‘It seems that Fanny has a secret crush for him, and Julian outed her to the others while making a couple of dubious jokes in the process. He was just being his usual, poisonous self. By the time I left the room, the household was dividing into two camps and battle lines were being drawn up. This Robin bombshell could not happen at a worse time.’ 

As she approached the sitting room, she could hear the angry voices through the door. 

‘Take it back, damn your eyes’ Thomas roared ‘A lady is entitled to feel an attachment to another, regardless of her age!’ 

‘Thomas, it’s just a silly crush.’ Pat was saying soothingly. ‘My Nan fancied lots of men on the telly even though they were far too young for her, and we all pulled her leg mercilessly. There was no hate involved.’ 

‘But Julian said it maliciously,’ Kitty piped up. He was not joshing, he wanted to hurt.’ 

‘Lady B is too thin-skinned by far.’ Julian yelled back. He stepped forward until he was in poor Fanny’s face. ‘Get a sense of humour, woman!’ Looking over his shoulder, he added ‘She wouldn’t know a joke if she fell over it. It was satire, pure and simple. Much worse is said in politics, and we do not burst into tears and run from the chamber.’ Fanny rose hurriedly and left the room, clearly distressed. 

‘Shut up, shut up!’ Alison shouted holding up her hands for peace. ‘Mike doesn’t feel too good, so I am driving him back to the hospital to be checked over. You’ll be on your own for a while, and I don’t want to come back to a battleground, so sort it out. I’m too worried about Mike to deal with your petty quarrels.’ 

The atmosphere in the room changed immediately. Concerned glances turned to Mike, who stood with his hands on his ears and his eyes screwed shut, in obvious pain. ‘Can we go now?’ he asked ‘It has suddenly got much worse.’ 

After they had gone, the family looked at each other. Humphrey spoke up from the cushion where his head rested. ‘I think the best thing would be for Julian to go to Fanny, and make a full apology for any offence caused. Many women and men form affections that might be considered inappropriate to others, but we must learn to be tolerant. If Fanny has a penchant for Mr. Hollywood, I very much doubt she is alone – many other women probably desire him and admire him from afar. But these are private matters for her alone, and she didn’t deserve the indignity of a public exposure.’ 

‘It’s ludicrous though!’ Julian exploded, feeling opinion in the room was swinging against him. ‘What could she do with him even if she met him? Hollywood wasn’t even a twinkle in his great-great-grandfather’s eye when she was alive. It’s all rather pathetic and silly.’ 

‘Love and affection is never silly.’ Humphrey responded quietly. 

‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ Julian sneered ‘You spend half your day nestled in lover-boy's crotch after all. Now THAT’S a weird relationship if ever I saw one.’ Gasps from the others made Julian pause, sensing he might have gone too far this time. Humphrey chose not to reply, instead heaving a sigh and closing his eyes in distress. In silence, the room cleared. All felt too embarrassed and upset to stay. 

Cap had been upstairs assessing the damage to his bedroom floor now that the rug was removed, and came back downstairs to find Humprey alone, silent and noticed that his eyes were surprisingly moist. 

‘What has happened?’ the Captain asked. 

‘Julian happened.’ Humphrey replied bitterly. ‘I’ll not repeat what he said – let it lie, or the quarrel will just go on and on.’ 

Cap could guess what had happened. He had noticed Julian smirking as he took a great interest in the amount of time that Humprey spent in his company. He cringed to think of the crude inference that Julian could put upon such a simple act of Humprey’s head resting in his lap during Film Night or Food Club. 

‘Shall I go and sort him out for you?’ Cap enquired, longing to get his hands on the blaggard. 

‘No - I think the others have our backs.’ Humphrey said, ‘and anyway, it is just words, and while they can hurt, they cannot kill us, or destroy what we have.’ 

The Captain nodded. ‘Very wise. But then, you always are.’ 

Humphrey smiled up at him. ‘Is it nearly time for my lesson? I really think they are working, and soon I’ll be confident enough to go it alone.’ 

‘Not alone. I’ll always be beside you to help. I need to be there to catch you if you fall.’ added the Captain quietly, as he left the room to track down Humphrey’s body. 

Robin crouched by the lake, brooding. He wished it was night so that he could see Moonah watching over him while he waited out his time to join her. He was scared and worried. After so many years of being alone, he felt as if everything he had finally gained was slipping away from him. He had been puzzled by Alison’s reaction to parts of his story. When you died, the Essence that was you was called to Moonah’s light, and what was left behind was just a husk – a shell. If that shell could be used as precious sustenance to save the lives of others who were starving, what was wrong? He had no use for it any more. 

He sighed, thinking back months to the consternation that his remark that his sister was also his partner had caused. The wordless silence until he passed his remark off as a joke. In his family, all women were ‘sisters’, whether born to his parents or joined from another tribe. Romantic love and monogamy were concepts from later times that had no place in his life. 

He wondered if he should leave Button House, as he didn’t fit in. Tell Alison not to tell his story and hide himself in the woods. Even ask her to give the lie that she had seen him go to Moonah at last, and he was no more. He had the skills to not be found, even if confined by the boundaries of the house and grounds. 

He would miss them though. Witty, kind Humphrey, Mary and her fledgling tenderness towards him, Kitty and her sense of fun, Thomas patiently explaining the intricacies of love, The Captain who had defended him so often from Julian’s jibes, Pat’s efforts to include him in the various clubs, Alison, Mike …. he paused for a while to consider Julian and Lady Button. Both treated him with a sneering distain that was upsetting. He had heard the words ‘savage’, ‘dog’, ‘monkey’, ‘baboon, ‘ape’ and ‘heathen’ used by them to describe him when they thought he was not listening, but his acute hearing caught every hurtful word. He would not miss them at all. He had played the cheery clown to try and please them for long enough, but now he was tired. So tired. 

Perhaps Moonah would call him home tonight. He hoped so – he was ready to go. 

In the house, the Captain walked backwards in front of a complete Humphrey, holding his hands while at the same time ready to steady his head if it came loose. Cap had become adept at tucking his swagger-stick tightly under his armpit to allow both hands to be free. When re-assembled, Humphrey equalled him in height, and Cap kept his eyes fixed on Humprey’s as they made their slow progress from the corridor and into the library. ‘Keep staring ahead. Don’t look down’ he said I encouragement. ‘You are doing so well.’ 

‘Deportment. ‘said a quiet, female voice, making them both jump as they thought they were alone. 

‘Aah - I’m going!’ Humphrey exclaimed, as his head tipped forward. Cap’s hands flew upwards, his palms against Humprey’s cheeks. For a split second his eyes tracked down to Humphrey’s lips before he cleared his throat. ‘There we are, old chap. Right as rain.’ 

‘I’m going to have to get used to the unexpected, or I fear I will fall all over again.’ Humphrey replied with an enigmatic smile. Cap’s eyes widened at the implication of this remark. Was Humphrey flirting with him? 

‘Deportment.’ Fanny pronounced again. ‘It was quite important in my day. When I was a girl, my governess would make me spend at least two hours of every day walking around with a book balanced on my head to improve my posture.’ 

‘She didn’t make it easy for me either.’ she continued. ‘The book was part of a set of encyclopedias so was very heavy. She made the housemaid buff the leather cover with wax polish so that it was exceedingly shiny and slippery, and my hair was brushed one hundred times every morning, so it was also smooth and shiny. She noted down how many times the book fell to the floor in her little book, and I knew I would receive one stroke of a cane across my hands for each time I had failed.’ 

‘How unpleasant’ Humphrey sympathised. 

‘Oh, but it was necessary.’ Fanny exclaimed. ‘A Lady shows her breeding by her deportment.’ 

Cap led Humprey by the hand to the high-backed wooden settle and they both sat down side by side. Humphrey stood more chance of his head not falling off if he lost concentration while on the settle rather than the lower settee. 

‘I gather there was a – to-do – in the sitting room earlier today.’ The Captain began hesitantly. ‘I was upstairs checking on the damage to my bedroom floor at the time, so I cannot comment on what was said, but I would like you to know that I have a very high regard for you, and consider you a friend.’ 

He paused a moment, not sure how to proceed. Hs hand still held Humphrey’s and he was aware of a supportive squeeze to his fingers. ‘It does not matter at all to me that you find a man from the television attractive. I have seen him too, and declare that he has a certain charm.’ His cheeks went suspiciously pink. ‘Surely the main thing is that you still find somebody attractive? I have been a long time dead and you have even longer, and we should take enjoyment where we can.’ 

Fanny looked away, twisting her hands in her lap. ‘You do not think it foolish?’ 

Not at all.’ Humphrey replied on Cap’s behalf with a smile. ‘I think the problem with Julian is that he has nothing like this. None of the females in the house are – too his taste, or available – so he uses sarcasm to everyone else as a shield for his own loneliness. He is so abrasive that others do not want to befriend him.’ 

‘I cannot imagine a man like that would ever be satisfied with simple befriending.’ Fanny answered in anger. ‘He would want something more physical from a relationship. He has frequently bragged that ‘all is still in working order’ and my fear is that eventually he will ensnare someone more naïve, such as Kitty or Mary.’ 

‘I think Mary has a protector,’ Humprey said quietly, ‘and none of us would stand idly by while Julian tried to seduce an innocent such as Kitty. We regard ourselves as her brothers, and would defend her. Julian would find himself banished to live in the garden at his first attempt at a seduction.’ 

‘Should I approach Julian? Offer the olive branch?’ asked Fanny. Cap shook his head. 

‘No. Julian has to say sorry first. This is his chance at redeeming himself in all our eyes. And you approaching him would give him the upper hand, and allowing him to feel he has won thus enabling his behaviour.’ 

‘Pat and Thomas followed him out of the room.’ Humphrey added. ‘Hopefully they are speaking to him right now.’ 

Following the fallout, Julian had flounced off to his bedroom, where he sat on the bed with a ‘couldn’t care less’ look on his face. He was in equal parts annoyed, ashamed and embarrassed that Pat and Thomas sat each side of him. Annoyed that he felt so close to tears, ashamed of his treatment of both Fanny and Humphrey, and embarrassed that he had forced private matters into the open, betraying his …. he paused. They were not really his friends. None of them were. he was just a convenience to turn the TV off and on or change the channel, or write on a steamy mirror for the idiot to read. 

Now, the three of them sat silently in a row, wondering how to start a conversation. 

‘What is a silver fox?’ Pat asked abruptly. 

‘An attractive older man with white hair.’ Julian replied. ‘Women go mad for them, lucky sods. I was never going to be one – a rugger ball in the face at Uni put paid to that. I was never handsome after that. A certain raffish charm, maybe.’ 

‘Ah! You mean men like Frank Finlay in ‘Bouquet of Barbed Wire?’ Pat enquired. ‘Carol really fancied him. She fancied Jon Pertwee too when he was Doctor Who. He was a silver fox. She went off him as Worzel Gummidge though. She said the make-up spoilt his looks and he looked more like a turnip.’ 

‘Surely who one is attracted to is unimportant? It is the sentiment that lays behind that matters.’ Thomas began, warming to his theme. ‘That moment when your eye alights on another face, and ignites that flame in your heart. It matters not if the other is present in the room, or on the television, if alive or even dead. The important thing is the spark. It keeps us going and gives us hope.’ 

‘Does it? I hadn’t noticed.’ Julian said bitterly. ‘Who cares about me? Who gives a shit if I am happy or not? People care more about the bloody neanderthal than they do about me. At least I can hold a decent conversation, which that ape cannot.’ 

‘But it isn’t a decent conversation, is it?’ Pat remarked gently. ‘Ever since you arrived you have been hard to talk to. You treat Robin as if he was something stuck on the sole of your shoe, you treat poor Mary and Kitty as simpletons, you patronise Fanny every time she opens her mouth, jibe at poor Cap over his preferences, ignore Humphrey when he asks for a lift and turn away from any help we offer.’ 

Julian stood up hastily, his face twisting. ‘Well, if I’m that bad a person, I’d better leave, hadn’t I?’ he shouted. 

‘Sit down, you daft ha’porth.’ Pat soothed, pulling Julian back to his place between them. ‘This is exactly what I am talking about. You were getting ready to rush out and avoid the conversation, just because you didn't like what you were going to hear. Typical politician!’ he chuckled. 

‘Why not try to start again?’ Thomas entreated. ‘The arrival of Mike and Alison has given us more freedoms than we have ever known at Button House – television, internet, the ability to communicate with a living person, new books, magazines – it is surely a chance for you to change too?’ 

Julian sat between them; his eyes bright with unfallen tears. ‘I think it’s too late for that.’ he whispered. ‘I’ve burned my bridges. Anyway, my very appearance is an insult to the women of the house. I can’t bend over without exposing myself, or run in the grounds without my shirt flapping upwards and doing exactly the same, and to be honest I feel damned ashamed about it. I tend to go on the attack before I am attacked. It is what I am used to from the cut-and-thrust of politics, and it is difficult to change.’ He took a deep breath in through his nose, straightening his shoulders. ‘But I will change, from now. You have my word.’ 

Pat and Thomas smiled at each other – mission accomplished. 

Alison sat in the cubicle at A & E, awaiting Mike’s return. He had just been given his second CT scan in as many days, and was currently seeing the ophthalmologist, to be followed by the ENT specialist to give him a hearing test. Worries plagued her. If Mike was to lose his sight, how on earth would they manage at Button House? She would have to sell up and move them both to somewhere more suitable. 

His eye condition sounded alarming. Flashes of colour just outside his vision. Migraine, possibly? But he’d never suffered before. Purples, yellows, blues – it sounded serious. She knew they could still cope at Button House if he lost his hearing. One of her past colleagues had been profoundly deaf, relying on lip-reading to work in a busy accounts department with no problem. She gave a shiver. Hopefully all this was just an after-effect of the blow to his head, and he would be fine. 

The curtain moved and Mike was pushed through in a wheelchair by an orderly, who left them both alone. 

‘Well, what did they say?’ Alison asked. 

‘The CT scan is fine. No swelling, no blood clots. The specialists are still looking at the results of the eye examination and the hearing test.’ He grimaced. I had to have my ears syringed. Possibly the most unpleasant thing that has ever happened to me in my life. 

‘Can you describe the noise?’ Alison asked. ‘Just in case it is the radiator pipes, and I’ve heard it too.’ 

‘No, it’s not the pipes, it was LOUD. I was in the sitting room both times when I heard it so I’ll check out the radiator in there just in case. It was a high-pitched angry noise – like a wasp was trapped in my inner ear. Then it stopped and a lower rumbling noise started – like a pneumatic drill in the distance. Then both noises together followed by a mumbled roaring.’ 

‘It sounds horrible.’ Alison sympathised. ‘I’ve never heard anything like that in the house. All I seem to hear from the sitting room is voices arguing about which TV programme to watch.’ A horrible thought crossed her mind. ‘You couldn’t make out any words, could you?’ she asked tentatively. 

The curtain moved again, and a doctor came through to see them both. 

‘I think you may have tinnitus.’ The doctor began. ‘If you are lucky, it will settle down and fade over the next month or so, but sometimes it is permanent. Sadly, there is little we can do for it. 

‘Oh great.’ Mike said glumly. 

The ophthalmologist can find nothing wrong with your eyesight, so it is a mystery. My suggestion is to go home, and get some rest. If things get any worse, come back here immediately.’ 

‘Let’s get you home!’ said Aliso brightly. ‘I have a theory about what is going on that I want to test out.’ 

Alison was surprised to find everyone scattered when she got back. She knew there had been a tiff when she had left, but usually these blew over in no time at all. Now there was an air of tension in the house. She found Fanny, an intact Humphrey and The Captain in the library. The two men were discussing something quietly, their hands linked. Fanny was asleep in a chair facing them. Alison was surprised – she had never seen Fanny sleeping during the day. 

‘Can you awaken her? She asked Cap. ‘I need to ask her a favour, for Mike’s sake. I also need you, Humphrey – head only – but not you, Captain.’ 

The Captain looked puzzled, but walked over to Fanny, gently shaking her shoulder until she awoke. 

’Wha - what is going on?’ Fanny exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. 

Alison and Mike are back, and they need our help.’ Cap explained. 

‘Of course,’ Fanny responded. ‘What do you need?’ 

‘Can you go through to the sitting room, and sit down exactly where you were this morning, at the time of the argument - and take Humphrey’s head with you and put him in place too?’ Alison asked. 

‘Ah! I see,’ Cap replied. ‘A reconstruction of the crime. But I wasn't there – I was upstairs. Hence me being surplus to requirements.’ 

‘You are never that, Cap!’ Alison replied. ‘but it is a reconstruction, which is why I’ll have to split the two of you up for a little while.’ 

‘It was hardly a crime, just some silly words.’ Fanny mumbled as she took Humprey’s head from Cap’s hands and walked towards the sitting room. 

Soon all were assembled in their correct places, waiting in silence as requested. 

Alison led Mike in by the hand, standing him in the middle of the room. ‘Look at me.’ she said quietly and tell me what you see to the side?’ 

‘something purple over there.’ he replied, jabbing a finger in Kitty’s direction. ‘Burgundy.’ Kitty murmured under her breath.’ Not purple.’ 

‘Big grey cloudy thing there.’ he said, indicating Fanny who harrumphed, preparing to say that NO Lady should ever be referred to as a ‘thing, especially a big cloudy one’, but then remembering Allson's request to stay quiet. 

‘Yellow and blue over there.’ Mike continued, pointing to where Mary sat. 

‘Close your eyes – I'm going to turn you around’ said Alison, ‘Now, open your eyes again. anything to the side here?’ 

‘Reddish brown with white there, and mustard yellow there.’ he continued. ‘Dark blue or black over there with white at the bottom, but I’m not sure.’ 

‘Fantastic!’ said Alison. ‘Mike, you have just pointed out where everyone is sitting or standing. You can sort of see the ghosts now. I don’t know how long it will last, though.’ 

‘I told you that I saw them just before I passed out.’ Mike exclaimed. ‘I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, as it is lovely to know where you all are – after a fashion – but it makes my head hurt.’ 

‘Now for your hearing test!’ Alison said, turning him around again. ‘Fanny. ‘ 

‘Hello, Michael.’ she said clearly. ‘Can you hear me?’ 

Mike clapped his hand to his ear. The wasp noise again!’ he gasped. 

‘Humphrey?’ Alison enquired. 

‘Hello Mike. this is Humphrey. I’d like to thank you for all your kindness towards us all.’ 

‘Deeper noise, more of a rumble.’ Mike replied.’ 

‘Thomas?’ Alison asked 

‘I am so glad to get the opportunity to talk to you.’ Thomas started. ‘Thank you so much for your kind work on restoring my desk!’ 

‘Mike was frowning. ‘Mostly a buzzing, but was the last word ‘desk?’’ 

‘It was – that was Thomas thanking you for working on his desk.’ Alison said proudly. ‘Well, I think that is case proven, M’lud. There is nothing physically wrong with your eyes and ears, you just have a very slight ability to see and hear the others, probably due to your accident. Chances are it won’t stay so shouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.’ 

‘It’s fascinating.’ Mike exclaimed, turning to the reddish brown and white blob. ‘Thomas, can we go somewhere quiet and see if I can hear more?’ 

‘My room?’ suggested Thomas, ‘I think the floor is sound!’ 

Mary approached Alison, clearly worried. 

‘Alison, what did you say to Robin?’ she asked. ‘He ran out of the house after talking to you, and hasn’t come back since. I went to look for him. He was sitting by the lake and looked so sad I wanted to know what happened betwixt you before speaking to him.’ 

‘Oh no!’ Alison groaned. In all the drama she had forgotten about Robin, and how upset and unsettled he had been when she left him. 

‘I’ll go down to the lake and speak to him now.’ he reassured Mary. Yet another misunderstanding. What a day it has been. 

As she approached the lake, she could see Robin sitting alone, his shoulders slumped in a posture almost of defeat. 

‘Robin.’ she acknowledged as she sat beside him on the damp grass. 

‘I know what you come to say. I go. I leave house and live in woods until Moonah takes me.’ he replied softly. Alison turned her head to look at hin, and was saddened to see the tears on his cheek. 

‘Oh, Robin - I don’t want you to go!’ she exclaimed. ‘You need to come indoors with me – come home to the people who love you.’ 

‘No one love me.’ He answered. ‘Call me savage, ape, heathen baboon. Tell me I stink. No friends. Want to go to Moonah now. You go back to house and tell them all that Moonah’s big white light came and took me away. I not bother you anymore.’ 

‘Hey - what is all this about?’ Alison said soothingly, wanting so badly to put her arm around his shoulders, he looked so lost. 

‘When you tell everyone about my past, it prove that I am a savage and not good enough to be friend.’ He mumbled. ‘I remember words from Mike's favourite film. ‘Out of time, out of space and meaning.’ That is me. Wish I had not told you. I would still be happy.’ 

‘Well,’ Alison said thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t told any of the others yet – only Mike. There is no reason why this needs to go any further.’ 

‘Please burn notes!’ Robin asked urgently. 'No one must ever know.’ 

Alison replied. ‘If that is your wish, of course. But I have another idea. I have a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend who writes what we call graphic novels. they are stories told out in drawings. There is a chance he would be interested in turning your story into one of his books. His readership would not be squeamish about – the aspects that worry you – and your story would still be told, and not be forgotten. How does that sound?’ 

‘As long as notes stay hidden.’ Robin urged. Not safe kept in house. Julian find them and move them for all to read.’ 

‘I have somewhere secret to put the notebook.’ promised Alison. ‘Now, will you come back with me? It is getting late now and I need to start dinner, but I’m not happy to leave you here all alone.’ 

‘I sit and wait for Moonah.’ Robin replied, his eyes fixed across the lake. 

‘I’ll send Mary out to sit with you. She worries about you, you know. She cares a lot.’ 

‘and I …. care … for her too.’ Robin replied solemnly. 

‘Good.’ Said Alison with a smile as she turned back to the house. Mary was watching from the path, and when bidden ran to the lake. 

Things were not all okay – an uneasy truce held between Fanny and Julian after a mealy-mouthed apology from him was accepted by a decidedly starchy Lady B, but at least she knew that everyone was trying their best to heal old wounds, and tomorrow would be better. 

She glanced back at the lakeside. Mary sat beside Robin now, watching the moon rise over the water. She smiled to see Robin hesitantly put his arm around Mary’s shoulders, pulling her close. At least it was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be taking a long weekend off from this, so I'll probably be posting again on Monday. I'm not sure who will be next - it will be name-out-of-the-hat time again.


	7. Julian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise is arranged for Cap, and Julian confides his story.  
> It doesn't show him in a good light ....

Robin and Mary sat by the lake for most of the evening. Alison glance out from time to time, worried about the cold drizzle that now fell. Kitty wandered past and told her not to worry, as neither cold nor rain affected the dead anymore. 

‘Isn't it wonderful!’ Kitty giggled. ‘True love in the house at last! I have been waiting so long for this to happen. I knew that Mary found Robin attractive a long time ago, but he seemed reluctant to express his feelings. It was almost as if he felt he was not good enough for her, but I declared it a true love match hundreds of years ago.’ Kitty smiled sunnily, adding ‘And it is so nice that the Captain and Humphrey are such fine friends now. It is such a pity that two men cannot love each other!’ 

‘Why can’t they?’ asked Alison, carefully. Kitty burst out laughing. ‘It’s silly – who would be the bride and who the groom?’ This was a conversation Alison did not feel equal to explaining, so she just said ‘You remember the wedding with the two brides, and the two male guests who danced with each other all night? Even the slow, smoochy dances? They were in love. It is not considered wrong anymore.’ 

‘So, the Captain and Humphrey are true love too?’ Kitty gasped, bouncing up and down while clapping her hands with excitement. ‘We can have a double wedding! Robin and Mary, and The Captain and Humphrey. I can be bridesmaid to both - ‘she paused, a little puzzled ‘But first of all, the Captain and Humphrey will have to decide which one of them is the bride that I will be the maid to. I’ll ask them!’ 

‘Kitty, please try to be discreet until Cap is ready to make his own announcement about this – if he makes one at all. You see, right up until recently it was illegal for two men to be in love, and he could have been disgraced and thrown into prison.’ 

Kitty looked horrified. ‘Prison for being in love?’ How cruel.’ she remarked. 

’It was a cruel world.’ Alison murmured ‘but kinder now thankfully. Anyway, I think Charades are starting soon in the sitting room, if you want to join in?’ 

‘Oh yes! I love Charades – apart from when it turns into an argument!’ Kitty replied. 

‘Hopefully there will be less of those soon.’ Alison replied ‘I am trying to instill some calm and harmony into this household.’ 

‘Ah! Robin and Mary are coming back now!’ Kitty exclaimed, looking towards the lake. 

‘How can you possibly see? It’s pitch black out there? Alison asked. 

‘I can see in the dark.’ Kitty remarked as she headed to the sitting room. ‘Just like a kitty-cat.’ 

Through the gloom, Alison could now see Robin and Mary approaching the house. They were walking slowly, deep in conversation. Mary had her hand tucked through Robin’s arm, and they both seemed completely content. Allowing them some privacy, Alison decided to go to the sitting room and referee the game of Charades. 

The sitting room was surprisingly calm. Mike was in charge of the little cards that Alison had made out with the names of such films and TV shows the family were familiar with, and the names of some TV personalities they knew - she had removed the cards for ‘Bake Off’ and ‘Paul Hollywood’ already, as nobody wanted to go there again, and the mime chosen for Paul Hollywood might upset Fanny all over again. Mike would hold the card so that only the player could see it, and the rest guessed. The guessers only had five minutes to guess correctly before time was up. 

Julian had not joined the others, but stood at the back of the room, leaning his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed as he watched on. Thomas was having a lot of difficulty miming ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ to the others and was becoming slightly irate when Pat decided that his posturing and pouting was more representative of ‘RuPaul’s Drag Race’ rather than an Argentinian Tango. 

‘I’m sorry!’ Pat retorted. ‘How was I supposed to know that what you were doing with your lips was part of your tango face?’ 

‘Not joining in tonight?’ Alison asked Julian, quietly. ‘You usually love this. It gets your competitive juices flowing.’ 

Julian shot her a glance. ‘To be honest, I’m not really welcome.’ he mumbled. ‘Lady B is still rather frosty, and neither the Captain or Humphrey will speak a word to me. The Captain glowers at me as if he knows exactly where he wants to shove that bloody swagger stick, and Humphrey just looks so sad all the time. I was so juvenile picking on them because they are in a relationship, no matter how impossible it seems to me... I mean, how do they … can they?’ 

‘I think it’s more about closeness and caring for each other that anything physical at the moment.’ Alison murmured back. ‘Pat has told me what was said, and to be honest I am a little disappointed with you, Julian. I didn’t think you were homophobic.’ 

‘I’m not!’ Julian replied hotly. His raised voice caused one or two heads turned towards them. ‘Look, is there somewhere quiet we can go to talk? I want you to understand why I am like this. The terrible strain I was under in the years before my death. I want to talk. I NEED to talk as this is ruining everything. It did while I was alive, and even in death I can’t get free of the guilt.’ 

Alison pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, curling her fingers over her aching forehead. Today had been a horrible day, and she just couldn’t face any more. 

‘Can we do it tomorrow, Julian? I’m not turning you down, but I’ve had a lot to sort out today and to be honest I want a long, hot soak in the tub then bed. I’m knackered.’ 

‘Whatever is best for you.’ Julian replied, but looked a little disappointed. 

‘So much for tomorrow being better’, she thought. ‘I’ve got Julian’s first-hand account of his guilty sex-orgy-death thing to look forward to instead. Whoopee.’ 

‘Why don’t you sit next to Pat – there’s a space there – and join in the game?’ she said soothingly. ‘Even though you make it hard at times, we all still care about you – we are a family, after all.’ 

‘If we are family, I must be Evil Uncle Julian. As long as Pat doesn’t punch me on the nose as soon as I sit down.’ said Julian glumly as he moved to take the seat. ‘He won’t.’ Alison replied with a smile. 

Pat gave Julian a welcoming grin. ‘Ooh good! You’re on my team, mate. You’re usually good at this.’ 

The next morning Alison woke up refreshed, and truly hoping that today could be better. After getting showered and dressed she headed straight for the sitting room. She found Julian there alone, concentrating on the list of channel numbers that Mike had pinned on the wall, and whining with strain as he bent forward over the coffee table to key the numbers into the TV controller. 

‘Let me help.’ Alison said, picking up the remote from the coffee table. The sight of Julian bending over the low coffee table had quite put her off breakfast. ‘Which channel?’ 

‘Channel 41 – the Food Network.’ Julian replied, flexing his fingers to relieve the strain. ‘I thought it would be nicer for Fanny to be able to watch Bake Off without having to argue for it. Anyway, if the Food Network is up and running when the others arrive and I’m not here to change the channel, they will just have to poke up with it, won’t they?’ 

‘Well, it was a lovely thought up to that point.’ Alison muttered as she keyed in the channel then put the controller back on the table. ‘Yesterday, you said you wanted to talk. I’ll grab a cuppa, let the others know not to disturb us and then we’ll use the library if that’s okay?’ 

‘Look - I’m not sure now that this is a good idea.’ Julian said hastily. ‘Perhaps we’ll not bother, eh?’ 

Alison looked at him closely. She had noticed that when the ghosts were tired or had missed out on their overnight rest, a certain transparency was apparent, and Julian was almost waxen. 

‘Did you get any sleep at all last night?’ she asked ‘You are looking pale.’ 

‘Not a lot.’ he admitted ‘Going over and over what I was planning to say to you. ‘You’ll hate me.’ 

‘I think you need a couple of hours sleep before we even start, so I am ordering you back to bed.’ Alison said firmly. 

A flash of the old Julian appeared as he gave her a wicked leer. ‘Are you offering to join me?’ he purred. 

‘No. Two o’clock this afternoon.’ Alison pronounced ‘That’s when we’ll talk, and not a moment sooner. Julian, whatever you have to say won’t shock me, you know. I’m not only broad-minded but bomb-proof too.’ 

‘You’ll need to be.’ Julian replied bitterly ‘I’ve carried this guilt around like a bloody monkey on my back for so long now, it will be a relief to share the burden, but I guarantee you will hate me afterwards. I hate me, come to that.’.’ 

‘Whatever it is we’ll sort it out.’ Alison said soothingly. Now, go to bed. You’ll get a good five hours of sleep in and feel a lot better.’ 

With a sigh she headed for the kitchen in search of tea. She was just taking her first sip when the Captain came in, and he was looking pale around the gills too. 

‘Let me guess – you couldn’t sleep either.’ She began. 

‘I’ve a problem with my temporary billet.’ he began. 

‘Your what?’ Alison asked. 

‘My billet – my quarters - my bedroom.’ he replied tetchily. 

Alison sighed, feeling like a Guest House owner with a picky customer. 

‘I thought it would be okay. It’s a good room – the room is bigger, the bed is bigger, it’s on the ground floor, you have nicer furniture such as a bedside table, no hole in the floor – what else could a man desire? It is snug and surely better than that bare attic?’ 

‘I know the room well.’ He replied. It used to be my room before Heather died. I ‘bagged’ her room after she had departed, and moved into there for a while. Everyone else moved around to nicer rooms. Then you arrived with Mike and took back the master bedroom as your own. No one was prepared to give way so I had a choice of returning to my old room downstairs – which I dd briefly - or the attic. There was quite a disagreement, and in a fit of pique I declared that I was not prepared to go back permanently to my old room, as I wanted to be upstairs, and would sleep in the attic if no one would give way. The people in the cellar wander around the ground floor at night time, and I had no wish to be awoken with ring-a-ring-a-roses again. It puts the willies up me.’ Alison bit back her response to his last sentence, thinking it would not be appreciated. 

‘Well, you can’t sleep in the attic now.’ Alison objected. ‘Once Mike is free of that ankle boot, he is planning on fitting new floorboards and you can’t sleep in a building site.’ 

‘It isn’t that I am in my old room that was the problem last night, or even that it is on the ground floor. My problem was with my neighbours.’ 

‘Your neighbours? I thought Mary had the next room.’ Alison puzzled. 

‘She does. And last night she was – entertaining – Robin. Quite noisily. All night.’ Cap’s cheeks went decidedly pink. 

‘I take it she was not singing and dancing for him then?’ Alison asked with a slight smile. 

The Captain cleared his throat. ‘I believe in army parlance it was called the Horizontal Tango.’ 

‘Awkward.’ said Alison ‘You look so washed out. I heard Mike get up a while ago, so I suggest you use our bed to get a few hours of sleep in some peace and quiet. You’ll feel better for it. I don't want you to fade away.’ 

‘If it isn’t an imposition?’ Cap asked. ‘Some sleep would be nice.’ 

Mike had just made it down the stairs, and stood in the doorway, watching Alison while flicking his eye to the side. ‘Big khaki thing with a low rumbling voice – Captain?’ 

‘He can sort of see and hear you now. Something to do with the bang on the head.’ Alison explained before turning back to Mike. 

‘Cap is going to borrow our bed for a few hours. He is shattered as he was kept up all night by the noise of Mary and Robin bonking next door.’ Alison explained. Mike’s mouth hung open in surprise. ‘Ghosts bonk?? Can they even DO that?’ he asked. 

‘Apparently, yes.’ Alison replied shortly. Her day had not started well. Mike turned to face the khaki blob that frustratingly immediately vanished from his vision. ‘Have a good sleep, Captain.’ He said, for some unknown reason following the words with a little salute. It was probably all that khaki getting to him. The low rumbling began again, clearly ending with the word ‘kind.’ 

‘He said, ‘Thank you, you are both so kind.’ Alison added. ‘Yes, I think I got the drift of that.’ Mike said. 

His work with Thomas had led to the discovery that he only heard the last two or three words of any sentence. Between them they worked out that if Mike had acquired this gift before the break-in, Fanny would have yelled ‘Wake up, wake up’ - far better than any burglar alarm – then Thomas would have said ‘Hello Mike. This is Thomas speaking. We have burglars.’, After Mike had asked how many, Thomas would have said ‘Hello Mike, this is Thomas speaking. There are two.’ Rather a cumbersome method of communication, but better than nothing, and the amount of time needed for Mike’s ears to adjust to ghost-speak might shorten with practice. Providing he retained the ability to hear them, of course. 

Alison took herself off to the library for a few precious hours of peace, answering enquiries for wedding bookings and checking over the website. More and more couples were asking for overnight accommodation, so once the finances were in better order, it was something to attend to. It meant that when guests were staying, some of her non-corporeal housemates might find their usual bedrooms unavailable, so she really needed to tidy out the attic rooms so they would have somewhere comfortable to retreat to. 

A noise of muffled giggling from the hallway made her pop out to see what was going on. A small procession was heading up the staircase – Robin and Kitty were leading Humphrey’s body up the stairs, while Mary followed, carrying his head. ‘Don't disturb the Captain’, she called after them in a loud whisper ‘He needs to sleep.’ 

‘This is a bedding ceremony.’ Mary replied. ‘We put Humphrey into bed with The Captain. We should all sing a song to them to bless the nuptials but apart from me and Humphrey, no one else knows the song, and as Humphrey is either the bride or groom, I’d end up singing it alone.’ 

‘O-kay.’ Alison replied slowly, glancing at Humphrey. ‘Will Cap be alright with this? Isn’t it a little bit – public – for him?’ 

‘I think everyone knows by now, and I think privately he’ll be thrilled to find me there.’ Humprey replied. ‘I don’t think a song is a good idea though, Mary. If he wakes up to a caterwauling and finds everyone standing at the foot of the bed watching him sleep, it will probably creep him out. Just get me settled comfortably beside him, and I’ll be there for him when he awakes.’ 

A few minutes later, Robin and Mary came back downstairs, looking very pleased with themselves. 

‘All done!’ Robin said proudly. ‘Not sure if they can ‘do it’, but huddle is still good. Be close to each other. Warmth. Comfort. Belonging.’ 

‘Talking of ‘doing it’, I need a word with you two.’ Alison began. ‘The reason Cap is asleep in my bed is because you kept him awake all night ‘doing it.’ Can you try to ‘do it’ a little quieter?’ 

Robin grinned slyly while Mary blushed. ‘Not only me doing the shouting last night’ he said. But we try to be quieter, or do it outside?’ 

Alison had horrified visions of Lady B looking out of her window to see her housemates ‘doing it’ on the front lawn. ‘No, not outside, but anywhere else that is away from where people are sleeping. Talking of sleeping, you both look the worse for wear too’ 

‘We okay.’ Robin replied. ‘Tired but happy.’ 

Mike returned from his workshop as they were speaking. 

‘Yellow and blue – Mary? And a new one – orange. Raspy voice. Must be Robin.’ He stopped suddenly, snuffing the air. ‘Why can I smell wet dog?’ he asked. 

‘I can’t smell anything!’ Alison gabbled. Are you sure you haven’t trodden something in? Fox poo or something?’’ Mike obligingly started checking his shoes. ‘Robin,’ Alison continued, ‘can you spread the word among the others that Julian wants to talk to me in the library? Mike will put whatever you like on TV. Thomas can now speak one or two words for Mike to hear, but please don’t badger them with requests, as this is early days.’ Great. So, Mike had smell-o-vision of the ghosts too. Robin and Mary headed for the sitting room while Mike straightened up. 

‘Nothing on my shoes, and the smell seems to have gone.’ Mike remarked. Alison urgently whispered that the smell was Robin, who was rather sensitive about it. ‘Anyway, it’s not him, it is those furs and skins he wears. I don’t think there is anything we can do. We can’t give him new clothes and water doesn’t touch him.’ 

‘I guess all the Febreze in the world wouldn’t help if it couldn’t stick.’ Mike added. ‘Would you like a cuppa?’ 

‘Yes please. I’m expecting Julian at any minute for his little chat, and might need something to fortify me. He has already warned me that I will hate him afterwards so whatever he wants to say won’t be good.’ 

‘Tea coming up.’ Mike said supportively. 

Punctually on the stroke of two, Julian put his head through the door. Alison had decided not to sit at the desk – it made her feel like a headmistress waiting to see an errant pupil – and instead sat on the settee. She patted the seat beside her. 

‘I thought that this would be better than sitting at the desk.’ she said, ‘We’ll be side by side rather than face to face. I am also not using a notebook just in case you want absolute privacy and nothing written down.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Julian replied. He seemed much humbled and more than a little afraid. ‘I’ll make a start then.’ 

‘I was born into money. Lots of money. My father was a director of an international private bank, holding accounts for most of the crowned heads of Europe, and other less salubrious people who wanted to keep their wealth hidden.’ 

‘I received the finest schooling available. I attended one of the topmost schools in the land, which started accepting female students when I was fourteen. I was the best at everything until then – top of the class academically, captain of the school rugby team, debating society champion, lined up to be head boy. My future was really bright. Then girls joined my class year, including Fiona.’ 

‘She was soon surpassing me in everything – debating, ability, popularity – I could see it all slipping away. She had one problem though – she was small, plump and plain with owlish glasses. I decided on a strategy. I would make her fall in love with me, then pick her brains to boost my academic achievements. I determined to convince her complete all my course work for sheer love of me – while I would undermine her confidence and drive her down.’ 

‘Wow. that is really cold and calculating.’ Interjected Alison. ‘Poor Fiona.’ 

‘I told you I wasn’t nice. My plan worked like a charm. She would complete all my assignments and either not submit her own or hand in incomplete work as she was too tired to finish her own work after writing up mine. I constantly told her how fortunate she was to have caught such a prize catch as me, as she was only a scholarship girl, so out of my social class. I reminded her that my father was a billionaire and my mother the daughter of a Baronet, while she was a nobody. I also made comments on her appearance and said I would a little ashamed to be seen with her on my arm as she was not a looker, so we should not be seen together. Ever.’ 

‘You were a real charmer, weren’t you?’ Alison muttered. 

‘I won a place at Cambridge ‘Julian continued ‘but realised immediately I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the course work unaided and would need to somehow take Fiona to Cambridge with me if I wasn't to be swiftly outed as a fraud.’ 

‘I asked my father to buy me a house in Cambridge that I could use during my time at uni, then retain afterwards as the start of my property portfolio. My father was delighted that I was planning to invest, and happily bought me a little two-bedroom terraced house in Cambridge. I persuaded Fiona to elope with me. She left her parent’s home in the middle of the night with no word of where she was going. She had kept her relationship with me a secret from her parents so they had no idea where she had gone.’ 

Alison’s face was grim. ‘They must have been distraught. This was so unnecessary – do you have no thoughts to her parents at all? Please tell me she got a message to them to say she was safe.’ 

Julian sighed. ‘She wanted to, but I stopped her from doing that. I told her that her life was with me now, not them. I have to confess I couldn’t care less about her parents. All I was focusing on was keeping my little secret to success all to myself. The plain little teenage nobody with the magic brain. She was more and more under my control with each passing day and I must admit it felt good to have someone reliant on me for every penny – every crumb of food in the house. I felt powerful.’ 

‘I didn’t stint myself at Cambridge either. I must have seduced dozens of girls, and all the while I was out there getting laid, Fiona sat at home, completing my essays and dissertations for me. She had learned to exactly copy my handwriting – she was a clever girl. And uncomplaining. And with no will or ambition of her own any more. I had stripped all that away and she lived only for me.’ 

‘Bastard.’ Alison said under her breath. Julian nodded. ‘Yes - that is deserved. and it gets worse.’ 

‘Fiona got pregnant. Although I didn't love her, I still shagged her from time to time to keep her infatuated with me. I persuaded her that we were both too young to start a family, and she agreed to an abortion. And a second one before the year was out after she became pregnant again. I suggested we could stop this happening if she allowed me to arrange a sterilization for her, but she kept saying that one day we would have our perfect family.’ 

‘With Fiona’s help, I ended up with a double first from Cambridge. By rights it should have been hers - my entire damn time at university should have been hers.’ 

After uni my father let me indulge in my little hobby of building up a portfolio of properties which I would let out, or improve then sell at a profit. I ended up with more than a hundred dwellings, which I managed with a small team from swanky London offices. Fiona lived in one of my flats and I made sure there was always a certain amount of pocket-money in her account – not enough to strike out on her own and she had no car, no phone or no friends. I was fully aware that I had in fact cheated my way to my degree, and needed to keep Fiona under my control.’ 

‘I went into politics. Once again Fiona was invaluable to me – writing my speeches and virtually every word that came out of my mouth during the campaign. I was selected as an MP. I schmoozed Margaret Thatcher and swiftly became one of her little protegees. When she won her landslide in 1979, I became a junior minister in her cabinet. I noticed she had a penchant for Michael Heseltine, who had a lion’s mane of blonde bouffant hair, so I emulated it. To be honest, if Margaret had expressed an interest in a bunk-up, I’d have diddled her too, even though she was more than twenty years older than me.’ 

‘Being an MP was fabulous. The nights out at Annabel’s, the ‘working’ trips abroad, the girls, the cocaine – the girls and cocaine at the same time, even better. Being a judge for the Miss UK contest and having my pick of the girls both before and after the show. I used my parliamentary expenses money to improve my house in Surrey to palatial status. Fiona still lived in the little flat I had provided for her. It was over the top of a convenience shop in a back street of Soho. I owned the shop as well, which was rented out as a lock-up. It was situated handily for Westminster and I could slip off there whenever I wanted to give her a quickie, as I had to keep her still interested in me.’ 

‘Then things started to fall apart. I had taken on a research assistant who was the daughter of a prominent Tory donor. She was twenty-three and very pretty, and in no time at all we were in bed together – I could hardly help myself. She ended up pregnant, and due to Daddy’s influence within the Party there was no talk of an abortion this time. I was expected to marry her even though she bored me to death. So, I did. I told Fiona that it was a sort of dynastic thing – money marrying money – and it would make no difference to us, that she was my first love and would be my last. That poor deluded woman even gave me her blessing to marry Patricia.’ 

‘Rachel was born, and I started the nightmare of keeping all the balls in the air. Patricia was convinced I had another woman squirrelled away somewhere, and while she didn’t love me, she loved my family wealth and her own reputation, and was terrified of the tabloid press.’ 

‘Fiona was broken hearted when Rachel was born. She’d had two abortions during her years with me, and to her it felt as if the daughter of an industrialist had better genes than she to continue the Fawcett line.’ 

‘When Rachel was two, Thatcher fell from power and Major took her place. I’d been one of Maggie’s blue-eyed boys and Major despised me. I was relegated to the back benches along with other malcontents, and we spent our time disrupting the business of the House as much as possible – Major called us his ‘back bench bastards.’ We hoped to drive Major out and possibly reinstate Thatcher. As I was no longer a Minister my workload was lighter so I spent more of my free time indulging in some peculiar little sexual peccadilloes. I know of certain establishments that would … cater to such things.’ 

‘A snooping reporter thought she had a tasty tidbit about me, so I had to pay some enforcers to scare her off with the threat of shutting her up permanently. The pressure on me to keep a civilised home life with Patricia and Rachel, keep Fiona controlled and satisfy my strange whims became too much. something had to give and I decided to part company with Fiona. With no speech-writing duties, she was superfluous anyway.’ 

‘I explained to her that now my daughter was a toddler, I needed to devote all my time to her. I would settle a very generous amount on her, give her a really nice house I had just bought In Brighton and that she would be on her own, to build a new life for herself.’ 

‘I could see the fear in her eyes. She ran to me and threw her arms around my neck, weeping and telling me that she’d adored me for twenty-five years and thought I felt the same. I disentangled her and asked her to have her cases packed and ready in the morning. I’d come over myself to escort her to her new home in Brighton by train.’ 

‘The next day was a Sunday, which was good for me as the streets were quiet and the shop downstairs not open. I arrived very early – about 7 am – and opened the door. No cases at the bottom of the stairs. Slightly peeved, I went upstairs to see she was still in bed and asleep. Walking closer, I was horrified to see she was surrounded by pills and tablets. Careful to touch nothing, I approached the bed. she was definitely dead. I rushed around the flat clearing out anything that could possibly refer to me, and wiping down anything I might have touched in the last few days with bleach. I then slipped out of the flat again – thankful there was no CCTV anywhere around, and made my escape.’ 

‘They didn’t find her for almost a week. The shopkeeper downstairs finally reported a strange smell. As landlord, I was informed that one of my tenants had died. The police visited but I said I had never met her – she was just one tenant among hundreds.’ 

Alison felt sick. ‘Excuse me a moment, will you?’ she asked, leaving the library and walking quickly down to the lake and her favourite sitting spot. She needed to absorb all this before taking any more of Julian’s story onboard, and allow her simmering anger to cool down. How could Julian do that to another human being? Was he so totally wrapped up in his own ego that he could ignore the suffering of another for twenty-five bloody years? Did this woman have ‘doormat’ printed across her forehead? She wasn't sure how she could even face Julian again, let alone help him. 

Squaring her shoulders, she stood up and returned to the house. she said she would help him after all. 

‘Sorry about that.’ she said as she sat down again. 'To be honest I needed a breath of fresh air.' 

‘You’ve got guts to even come back to try to finish this. a lot of people would have just told me to leave the house and live in the woods for eternity.’ he said gloomily. 

‘You said you need help?’ she asked. ‘How? What with?’ 

‘I need someone to go to that flat in Soho. You won't be able to get inside, but tell me if you can see her at the window or something? It would be appalling to think that she is forced to live in that tiny space forever. I need to hear that she has moved on and is happy.’ 

‘Give me the address, and I’ll take a trip to London for you. Anything else?’ asked Alison, coolly. All her sympathies were with poor Fiona and she could barely speak to Julian. 

‘Yes. And this is the most important thing.’ Julian said quietly, and paused a while. Alison noticed unshed tears spilling over his eyelashes. Good. She was glad he felt remorse. It’s a pity he hadn’t when the poor woman was alive. 

‘Fiona was buried in Brighton. I told the police that she had moved there earlier in the week, and was just back to London to collect her last effects. I gave her new address as the house I had bought for her. Her parents paid for her funeral as I dare not get involved. As far as they were concerned, she had run away from home as a teenager and ended her days in the poky little flat in Soho, all alone. Possibly distraught at the thought of starting all over again in Brighton. I could not have attended the funeral anyway – I was too big a coward to witness her parent’s grief. I had finally realised that Fiona had actually been the love of my life, and I had squandered all for the sake of ambition. 

Patricia and I drifted further apart. All I wanted was Fiona back. I asked my solicitor to buy the cemetery plot next to hers. I left a letter with him to be handed to Patricia on the day of my death. In it I confessed everything about Fiona, and asked that the plot beside her be used for my own funeral. I was such a blind, stupid fool. When I no longer had her, I realised that dear, trusting Fiona had in fact been my only love and I had been an inhuman beast to treat her so. I had wasted both our lives and destroyed her. I think that is why I am still here – I am being punished for what I did to her.’ 

‘Can you go to the graveyard and check that my wishes were carried out, and that we lie side by side? Can you also put some flowers on Fiona’s grave for me?’ 

‘I should be able to do that too.’ Alison replied. ‘Listen, Julian. I don’t think it is a good idea for me to tell this story to the others. you are not exactly flavour-of-the-month at the moment anyway and this might tip them over the edge. To be frank what you did to Fiona was unspeakably cruel. It actually has a name now, and is a crime. It is coercive control.’ 

‘At least you have told someone now, and that is a start.’ she concluded. ‘I’m off to sort out something to eat, then I think we should all choose a film and try to rebuild some harmony here.’ 

Julian nodded. ‘I’ll be through later.’ he said, ‘but for now I want to be alone with my thoughts for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was NOT easy to write :(  
> Next chapter will deal with the details of Julian's death and the results of /alison;s attempts to help him.


End file.
